


A Little Monument of Stones

by YellowDistress



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Historical References, Romanov Assassination AU, Sad Peter Parker, Sorta like Anastasia but no singing and more sad, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-02 09:04:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19438267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YellowDistress/pseuds/YellowDistress
Summary: Russia's royal family has been executed. The little prince is presumed dead.That is until a boy is brought to Stark Manor, alive, thousands of miles away in rural England.





	1. Epoch 1.0

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! So this is a story that's a lot different from anything I've ever done. It's a Historical AU based on the Romanov Empire as well as themes from the animated Anastasia movie, just...a whole lot different. I love history so it's pretty exciting for me to tie it into a fanfiction. Right now I just have this down as a oneshot, but if you'd like me to add a bit more so we can follow these lives and this world, I'd be happy to do so! Just depends on the reception of how this goes, cause I know it's kind of weird.
> 
> So let me know if this is something you'd like to see more of. If not, totally fine! I just had the idea and had to write it down.

_ July 17th, 1918 _

The walls climbed, he knew.

Basements smelled of stagnant air, that one had. It had smelled of it – then his uncle’s mint coat where Peter had placed his face within his collar. Gunpowder, shrieking from the house maids and his aunt. Maybe his uncle had screamed – Peter wasn’t sure, he wasn’t sure of much besides the jostling of the back of the truck. The shaking, back and forth and back and forth. It was like being rocked to sleep, as sharp stings bloomed over his eyebrow and shoulder, aches and bruising beneath the jewels sewn into his clothing for safe keeping, where bullets had ricocheted off of him and he had kept silent, disoriented as he was carried limply from the room with the others, thrown into the back of the truck, and driven away.

_“Benjamin Parker, in light of the fact that your family and in the future, your nephew, has brought great suffering upon this country – it has been decided that you will be executed.”_

Peter’s nose was filled with blood, his mind filled with fog and smoke. The world folded over and Peter shuddered, turning his head to the side in the darkness. Light peaked in through the military roof, the tarp, the bodies beside Peter and maybe even his own were bleeding out and warm under his hands. Wide-gaping eyes stared back at him, grey and empty with death. Peter couldn’t even find the energy to cry as he took in the face of his uncle, and unmoving beside him was his aunt. Both gone into darkness that Peter wished to be in also.

_“Is the prince dead?”_

_“He looks to be.”_

_“But is he?”_

_“He is dead.”_

Peter wondered if maybe he really was, and he just did not know. He was soaked to the bone with the warmth from their bodies – the life and the thick of it. Peter wished they had been allowed to leave. He wished they had gone sooner than the revolution had initially given. Peter felt incredibly lost, and fearful, they had been held prisoners, when they had once been the most powerful monarchy in the world. After the fever had taken his parents, his uncle had been made regent, and they had only meant to wait until the day Peter was old enough to step forward. To take the crown and –

It hadn’t happened.

It could not happen now.

The truck came to a halt, slowing, and the hot July night was almost unbearable. Peter allowed this heat to strike him, like a match under his skin. Peter imagined being dragged out and buried alive, his twelve-year-old body left to rot, and Peter was frightened of the world after death. He was frightened of a lot of things. Peter wanted to dream, but he could not sleep. And then he was not – he was never asleep. But the death, the bullets – none of it ever came again. Instead there was grunting, a struggle, someone being slammed to the side of the vehicle.

_“What the hell –“_

The gunfire, arguing.

The tarp eventually drew back, exposing the familiar face of one of the guards assigned to keep him and his family prisoner in the house after the revolution. And yet, when he spoke – his voice held no accent – American English flowed from his lips as Peter’s small body was removed from the truck.

“It’s alright – my name is Steve Rogers…I’m gonna help you.”

…

…

…

_ July 29th 1918 _

_ Anthony Edward Stark, _

_You hired that American out of necessity. I understand._

_But it is all futile. You know that family is under lock and key._

_Surely, even you know that they cannot be found. Our people would have located them._

_Steven Rogers and Samuel Wilson are both, in short: incompetent._

_Especially if they brought that traitor James Buchanan Barnes along._

_Best wishes,_

_Nicholas Joseph Fury_

“He appears to have all the faith in the world in your decisions, Sir.”

Tony held the corner of the banister, he gripped it tightly enough to dye his knuckles white as he held the letter between his fingers. Truthfully, he had been hopeful that the letter would be news from Russia. But they were entering their second month of silence – and Tony was not sure if their efforts were in vain or not any longer. Contacting Steven Rogers and his Americans was out of necessity, but his mother had been born there – his father had trusted Steve Rogers, had used the science of their age to change him – and so Tony had figured he was the best money could buy.

Turned out Steve Rogers just wanted to continue his antics. He wanted a mission and he got one: Locate and monitor the Russian Royal Family.

Truthfully, none of it was the business of a Lord whose hobbies included relatively new age technology – not that of politics. He loathed such as that, and Russia was right in the middle of experiencing tumultuous politics, as Tony liked to call it. But Richard and Mary had been somewhat important – ‘friends’ if that was the right word, even if he hadn’t spoken to them in fifteen plus years. They had funded a few of his projects when his father had refused, before Howard Stark’s death, before the title of lord had been passed to him. Before and before.

Richard and Mary had died eight years ago – but the heir still lived. Tony may not have known the boy, but there was curiosity. A country under turmoil, a boy controlled by his regent uncle. All of this interest melded together, but Tony refused the curiosity to turn into emotion. It was simply business. Besides – he knew the bloodiness of revolutions. He knew what they often presented. Marie Antoinette, her young son, it was cruel.

Tony’s mouth upturned as he pivoted to look at Jarvis who stood a few feet away.

“Nick loves me, Jarvis, don’t doubt it a moment,” Tony handed the paper back over to the butler before he turned around the banister and began to trot down the stairs towards the foyer. He called over his shoulder, “He simply lacks faith, which I can’t blame him – the world has not been kind. Speaking of unkind, where is the lovely Miss Potts this morning? I feel she has been avoiding me ever since that little fiasco in the work shop.”

Jarvis sighed as he followed. Tony turned on the marble floor, grinning at the man with crows’ feet around his eyes, similar ones surely to take hold of Tony soon. Jarvis replied, sounding like he was gently chastising a child, “Miss Potts deserves a bit of rest. You drive the poor woman up the wall with those little potions and contraptions you like to build. Then to miss all of your meetings in the city…”

“Can you really blame me,” Tony exhaled, exasperated as he strode towards the kitchen, “That carriage is nauseating after even a sip of brandy, I can hardly stomach it.”

“Oh we wouldn’t want anything to come between you and your brandy, now would we?”

Tony pointed an index finger, “Now you’re getting it!”

He pushed out onto the back patio and the green lawn, freshly clipped surrounded by blooming summer flowers. Almost immediately he turned to the right, seeing a figure with papers strewn out, an ink pen moving swiftly over the pages, and a mouth set into a thin line, deep in thought. Miss Potts’ dress was fit for the summer heat, though Tony couldn’t imagine it was comfortable still. He put his hands on his hips and called, “Ah there you are! Hiding, I presume?”

She looked up, eyes wide before contorting into annoyance. She let out a huff and Tony approached, hearing Jarvis follow him out the door moments later. As he got closer, he continued, “Are you really so eager to avoid me that you’d hide out here in the blazing heat?”

“At this point I’m willing to steal a horse and ride into the city,” Pepper frowned, “What do you want? Someone has to handle your business, and since you seem even more reluctant than usual to comply, I must. I would appreciate some peace and quiet.”

Tony plopped down in the chair across from her, and placed both arms lazily on the rests.

“Jarvis, tell Miss Potts I simply must bother her, because she is the only person in this great big house who gives me an ounce of the attention that I desire.”

Pepper looked at Jarvis and raised her eyebrow. Jarvis simply raised his chin, and announced, “I’ve got an assignment to handle. Remember sir, Colonel Rhodes will be arriving shortly, Hogan left some hours ago to retrieve him. He says it was quite urgent.”

Tony shook his head, “Urgent to Rhodey is a tooth ache, but yes-yes, I will wait with bated breath.”

Jarvis said nothing else, and disappeared inside. Pepper grabbed the pen once more, but Tony lunged forward, snatching it from her hand. He tossed it over his shoulder into the bushes adorned with bright flowers. Her jaw dropped and Tony exclaimed, “I came out here for attention, Miss Potts, I can’t receive it if you’re writing out money claims. Now come, tell me a story. How was London?”

“It was crowded and congested and all around miserable – but _someone_ won’t go deal with his business so I enjoyed a nice suffering,” Pepper snapped, “Now get me another pen. I’ve got to finish these and send them off with Hogan when he returns with Rhodes.”

Tony leaned his head back and groaned, “I am begging for a story.”

A puff of air escaped her lips.

“I saw Doctor Strange.”

“Ugh, disgusting.”

“Now, now, that man has shown you great patience, despite your many questions, especially after the procedure to repair your wrist when you built that awful flying machine,” She shook her head, leaned back as well in her own chair, “There is more to being a noble than using your money on silly machinery. Doctor Strange’s family has been an ally of the Starks for years, you should be appreciative of his kindness. He plans to make a journey here soon, he claimed there are many country folks who don’t have access to respectable doctors.”

Tony’s brows furrowed, “We have a very good doctor. Banner lives down the way.”

“Banner hasn’t practiced in years, only on you when you maim yourself,” Pepper tilted her head, “Doctor Strange is handling soldiers at the moment, it’s also rumored he has been spending time in foreign countries. Though I try not to listen to such chatter, you know most of the time it’s simply wives who are bored that spread those things.”

Tony pursed his lips, “Is it so boring to be a wife?”

“I imagine it’s dreadful. But sometimes I consider it, if it means I could escape your tyranny.”

He frowned even deeper, and he felt a bit of hurt, even if he knew it was a joke, “No, Miss Potts. I am no tyrant, and I absolutely refuse for you to be married. You must always stay with me. I would cease without you.”

Her face softened in the slightest. His did as well, but the blazing heat didn’t allow it to last long before she shifted and pointed to the bushes behind Tony’s head. She ordered once more, “Give me another pen, or dig that one out. I really do have work to finish.”

Tony hummed, standing and digging the pen out before tossing it to the woman. He grabbed the back of the chair and leaned forward a bit, gazing out into the gardens. It felt rather empty, their little world. The manor was old and often times cold, even in the heat of summer. Just because of the darkness, the dinginess, the lack of life. The servants moved about, along with Jarvis, Tony, and Pepper, but not much else. The murder of his parents left a dark cloud over their home – in the upstairs bedroom, the blue room, where he had gotten the floor ripped up and replaced where they had bled out.

“You’re thinking of it again.”

Tony looked at Pepper.

“Hardly,” Tony denied, “I’m thinking of what I will have for dinner. Bread. Lots of it, I have a craving today.”

He refused to be smothered by such memories. They crept in rather violently sometimes and he didn’t enjoy it. His mind teetered between that nonchalance. His fingers dug into the fabric of the chair and he was distracted momentarily by the sound of gravel cracking from the front of the manor. Tony moved around the chair, and a voice called in Jarvis’ octaves for him. Tony was relatively at ease, despite the oddness of being called and Pepper stood as well when Tony said, “Ah, that must be Rhodes now.”

He supposed, in retrospect it should have been troubling. But he really didn’t begin to feel concern until he was through the house, and approaching the front door standing wide open in the foyer. Jarvis turned from his place on the front steps, eyes wide and Tony still wasn’t panicked but curiousness caused him to quicken his steps towards the door. He made his way through the entryway, and Pepper’s shoes clicked behind them as they were once more welcomed into the sun. Pulled to the steps was a carriage, the door was standing wide open and Hogan was assisting someone who appeared to be Rhodes in removing someone from the inside.

Then, into the sunlight came countless figures for such a small carriage.

Rhodes – of course as Tony had figured, but more shockingly followed by two soldiers.

Steven Rogers.

Samuel Wilson.

And lastly, a woman that Tony did not recognize wearing some strange apparel he had never once seen adorned by a lady. Her bright red hair was pulled back tightly, wearing something similar to a man. She was stone faced as Steve Rogers then turned towards carriage and pulled out a limp form – a boy – who could not yet be in his teen years. Tony didn’t recognize him, or his unconscious face. A thick bandage was placed directly above his eyebrow, his hand was in a bandage too and his mouth split. He wore only a white shirt, trousers, and his feet were bare.

Pepper made a concerned sound and Tony began to move down the steps past Jarvis as he called sharply, “And what the hell is this mess?”

Rhodey turned. No one seemed particularly panicked, and the boy was asleep. But he was so still Tony began to wonder if he was even alive, brunette curls sweeping over his forehead in rest. Tony’s feet hit the stones, and his eyes moved among the men and woman. He looked at Rhodes, but then at Steve and Sam, before he continued, “Kind of you two to write back. What has it been…Two months? I was beginning to think you were either dead or had run off with my money.”

“Two months isn’t a lot of time to do much of anything,” Sam Wilson answered, “Especially not to infiltrate a Russian camp holding the Imperial Family hostage.”

Tony just huffed, eyes flitting to the boy. There was still no recognition in his mind, before he looked at Rhodes and went on, “I thought you were coming in just for a friendly visit, I didn’t realize you had run into my hired men.”

“It’s a long story,” Rhodes replied, “One we should tell inside. We don’t need too many people seeing the boy.”

Tony blinked at the kid again, and mused curiously, “The boy…”

He then looked at the lady, “And the woman, you’re rather new. I am – “

“I know who you are,” She sounded Russian, but also English and he couldn’t place her voice precisely, “I promise you, Fury has given me plenty of information. But I agree with Colonel Rhodes: We should go inside. Preferably a room where we can place the boy. He’s been heavily sedated for several days now and I think it would do him good to rest.”

An awkward silence flitted by. Tony hated it, partly because he was confused and these people, including his closest friend, had showed up out of the blue and were demanding things without providing much information. Which was something that often frustrated Tony, especially about the business world. Why he avoided the assault of the company his father had left behind for him, and left most of it to Pepper, something that was completely strange for the times. And this new woman, she knew Fury. Nicholas J. Fury, the bane of Tony’s existence as of late.

“Alright, follow me.”

Despite all of this hesitance, he still led all of them up to the guest room. Hogan looked red faced, kept apologizing, begging for mercy when it concerned his job, but Tony wasn’t worried about that. His curiosity was overrunning him – and the anxiety of the situation was quickly extinguishing his confidence. He brought them to the third floor, the green room, where Steve Rogers laid the boy down on the bed. Unnerved, mostly because sometimes he held little trust for Rogers because of Fury’s insistence they work together, be a ‘squadron’ of sorts and Tony didn’t trust any of Fury’s decisions. Therefore, he didn’t trust Rogers, or Wilson, and certainly not the traitor Barnes. Who thankfully was not there.

Not the blue room. Green, most certainly.

They all filed in, but Hogan favored the hallway. As soon as they boy was sinking into the mattress, Tony crossed his arms over his chest, watching Wilson begin to check the boy’s bandaging. Tony knew he had once been in the war, was trained in field medicine. Steve Rogers and Rhodey both turned to him and Pepper hovered near the unknown woman. Tony eyed her, because now she held his curiosity.

“So…I’m intrigued. Who are you and how do you know Fury?”

He then nodded his head to Steve and Sam, “As well as these two oafs.”

Steve narrowed his eyes and the woman looked even more serious, not finding the words humorous. She revealed the following information, clearly more relaxed now that they were inside, rather easily as she explained, “My name is Natasha Alianovna Romanova, or as Fury has renamed me: Natasha Romanoff. I handle several of his foreign affairs and when he heard that you were paying American soldiers to attempt to spy on the Russians he sent me in on reconnaissance. I located them over a week ago, attempting to board a ship here, to England…Smuggling that boy – “

“Don’t say it like that,” Steve argued, “We were rescuing him – those animals were going to execute him, they already tried.”

Natasha Romanoff raised her chin, sounding clinical, “I don’t believe it was your place to intervene with such affairs. If they find out about the child, and the fact he was smuggled out of the country, there’s no telling how many monsters will come knocking at your door. Now we have a child we can’t logically protect and evidence to trace the blood back to two American soldiers and an English lord. That’s not very wise, is it?”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Tony held up his hand, “What are you droning about? The boy, what about the boy? Who is he?”

Natasha Romanoff’s chest raised and fell, as if frustrated with the question. She then looked at Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson, neither of whom offered any answers as well. Tony met Rhodey’s eyes, concern and anger washing over, a bit of frustration towards his friend, and the fact no one was answering his question. Tony hissed, almost angrily, “How did you get roped in all of this, hm? Just happened to meet these three at a train station and hop into Hogan’s carriage figuring you were all going to the same place?”

“Fury sent me a letter,” Rhodey defended, “A letter describing the situation Miss Romanoff intervened in…It’s very…convoluted.”

“Hardly,” Tony growled, “Who is the boy, Rhodes?”

Wavering. Tony’s hands gripped into fists. He snapped, finally, “Who is the boy!?”

It was rare he raised his voice, unless angry and drunk at himself – not at others. Hardly, unless venting emotional turmoil. Steve Rogers – Tony had been told repeatedly he could trust his father’s science experiment but he did not. Because of Barnes, and his mind, and the fragility of it. But Steve was the first to offer an answer…and it somewhat made Tony less angry…

“He is the Tsarevich of Russia…The _prince_.”

Tony supposed he should have been shocked, which a part of him was. He was looking at the heir to one of the most powerful thrones in the world, but then he realized…No. No because the family had been exiled. Held prisoner. They were hardly powerful anymore, but their names still held support. Tony swallowed thickly, stepping backward, but trying to hide the fact he had done so. Stepping away from a child that was not yet a teenager, it seemed idiotic. Tony blinked a few times, and didn’t look away from the boy, but questioned…

“What happened?”

He wanted to know. Clinically. Like a doctor. Natasha offered that, and he supposed that was the best, because she seemed the most distanced from the situation as she explained, “His aunt and uncle were executed…Led to the basement like animals and placed before a firing squad. Rogers and Wilson witnessed the aftermath firsthand, though their arrival was minutes late…Rogers managed to pull the boy out, once they were driven into the woods for disposal. Family jewels sewn into his clothing kept him alive from the bullets, though he was still injured.”

She paused, then, “We have him sedated. Have for most of the journey.”

“Why would you bring him here?” Tony questioned, voice hard, “Huh? How is that even remotely wise? You just said people will come knocking down the door – “

“There’s nowhere else to bring him,” Rhodes interrupted, “The monarchy has toppled, but they’ll be looking for the boy, there’s no doubt. They will fear supporters of the Parkers rising up against their fragile government. He needs to be kept safe…He needs to no longer be a Parker, a new identity, a new life. Since you were invested in the well-being of his family in the first place…we figured you would be willing to take up responsibility.”

“Responsibility for what!?” Tony hissed, stepping forward, “I didn’t execute the Parkers!”

Rhodes replied, “But you sent Rogers and Wilson, which ultimately saved the heir’s life. You have the resources to protect this boy from anything that might endanger him…You need only play along. He is twelve years old, there’s still time for him to be molded into something other than a Tsar…”

Rhodes glanced at the others and continued, gently, “Lords produce illegitimates…Illegitimates that still receive the best life has to offer – “

“You want me to claim him as an illegitimate heir,” Tony growled, “I don’t even know this child.”

Steve interrupted sharply, “You knew his parents. You knew them enough to check on Richard’s brother and sister-in-law and his son. You knew them enough to think of them and what was left of them…Don’t pretend to be so heartless, Stark. He is only a boy, a boy that Wilson and I have spent months observing, and he deserves a chance at life.”

“Then _you_ take him,” Tony pointed a finger at Rogers.

“I can’t protect him…Maybe physically, but for how long? You have entire armies backing your family,” Steve breathed.

Wilson then muttered, “And no offense, but it won’t come as a surprise to anyone if Lord Stark produced an illegitimate heir twelve years ago.”

Tony narrowed his eyes. He felt a sickness form in the pit of his stomach and he almost swayed on his feet because of it. He didn’t want to think about what he was agreeing to. He didn’t want to agree to it at all. Tony shoved his hands in his pockets, looking at Pepper, and he saw her eyes – the way she was looking at the child in the bed – the way she knew, and then Tony knew. Because if Pepper had that look…it must have been important. Something, and something, something he could not see. Tony’s chest stuttered and he gulped.

“What would this entail?”

“Complete overhaul,” Natasha Romanoff was blunt, and he supposed maybe that was just who she was as a person, “Fury made himself very clear…The boy is to forget. And so are we…Even behind closed doors. He is no longer of Imperial Russia, he is the son of Lord Stark, come to live here after his mother’s illness took her life. He is no longer Tsarevich Peter, he is simply Peter. He will refer to you as Father, Papa, whatever he must – but no one can ever know who he truly is if he is to survive…And if we are to avoid pushing ourselves deeper into war for hiding the missing prince.”

“What – “

Tony started, but she interrupted, “These are our demands. You will abide, or you will be handled.”

He turned slowly, glaring, eyes narrowing as he stepped forward in the slightest. His head moved oddly, and he questioned, “Is that a threat?”

“It’s simply a request: Behave and obey.”

…

…

…

_ July 29th, 1918 _

“I never took you for someone to work with Nicholas Fury, Rhodes.”

Tony leaned against the wall in the hallway. The lavish decorations were mild to him, as he glanced over at his friend who had just appeared a few feet away. Rhodes let out a verbal sigh, adjusting his tie as he came forward to stand closer, and lean against the railing that overlooked the three stories downward into the foyer below. Tony was trying to stop smoking, and drinking, but he wanted both. It was as if someone had just told him they were carrying his illegitimate child, and yet instead said child was already twelve and unconscious a few rooms over.

“I’m not,” Rhodes sighed, “I’m simply…trying to save a child.”

Tony snorted. He felt a bit of guilt, for how inconvenienced this made him think he was. A child, a child, a hidden prince for fuck’s sake. He was not prepared for such scrutiny and he was not prepared for such a burden on his life of free will and going. Thinking of the boy, and pretending to hold a biological tie to him was almost frightening. He did not want to be a father. No part of him desired it. And yet it had come like something cold in the night. Tony bit down and replied, “Do you think I’m cruel for resenting this situation? For wanting to turn him away?”

“I think you’re immature.”

Tony bumped his shoulder, even if he knew the reply was justified. Rhodes continued, “Truly. I know what heart you have. I know the kindness and generosity you can produce, and Fury does as well, which is why I was contacted to assist in bringing the boy here. He may be royalty, but he is still just a child that needs protection against something evil. A revolution he had no say in…His uncle wasn’t meant to rule – but he was his regent and he didn’t have near enough of a backbone to keep their people from starving. The prince was punished for such a thing and it is unfair, in my eyes.”

“All is fair in love and war, Rhodes.”

“Not even you believe that,” Rhodey argued, “You know it is never fair to take the life of a child.”

Tony inhaled, looked down at the ground and moved a bit. He agreed, but he didn’t want to say it, was too stubborn to admit Rhodes was probably correct. So instead he went on ignoring. Went on pushing the information down violently. A pretend son was the last thing he had expected to encounter when he woke up that morning. It felt almost overwhelming in a way. He had never once spoken to the boy, he didn’t know what laid beneath.

“He isn’t mine, Rhodes.”

“He will be,” Rhodey answered, “He must be. For everyone’s sake. Everyone who was involved in smuggling him from the country… _Everyone_.”

There was a breath, then, “If not for him, his mother and father. They supported you when your father did not.”

That weighed heavily. Like something uninvited. Tony went to reply, maybe unkindly, he was not sure. But shouting down the hallway from the nearby bedroom drew his attention away from Rhodes. The two of them moved towards the shouting, and they rounded the corner back into the green room from which they had decided to take a breath. The window was open to allow fresh air in, Sam Wilson had disappeared some time ago with Hogan, but Natasha Romanoff was standing nearby, Pepper was by the window, and Steve was sitting on the corner of the bed, holding a flailing boy’s wrists.

The child was awake and aware, very much alive. Maybe a part of Tony had assumed he would possibly never wake up, but there he was, living. The white shirt they had dressed him in was too large, exposing bruised skin on his shoulder, clear signs of bullets ricocheting off of the jewels that had supposedly been sewed into his clothing. His eyes were wide, angry, and he was shouting in a language that Tony could only assume was Russian, because it certainly wasn’t English. Tony almost froze in the doorway as he watched Natasha Romanoff move forward and grab Peter by his face, not gently – not at all – and a part of Tony was angered by her roughness of a child that had just witnessed the execution of his family.

“Peter,” She ordered his attention, and when he didn’t still and tried to yank his face away, she pushed harder, “Peter, we speak English here. You speak English now. Understand? I know they taught you the language in the palace for diplomatic purposes. It is now your sole language.”

Instantly it felt wrong. It felt like stripping something from a child that did not understand and from the way Peter stilled, from the hurt in his eyes, he didn’t. Peter could not comprehend why he was being told this, Tony could only imagine what it would be like to wake and be stripped of everything like Peter was now – being told he could not speak his mother tongue. Peter shook his head – he continued to shout in his own tongue, he continued to flail, and Steve was trying to control him. Natasha’s hand raised, and Tony moved forward in an instant, grabbing a hold of her wrist before she could strike the boy.

She turned, her face unfaltering.

“He’s hysterical.”

“You won’t hit him,” Tony ordered, “You won’t.”

When he released her wrist, she turned back to Peter. He had stilled in the slightest at the intervention of Tony, but he was still sobbing, fat tears staining his face and unknown words leaving his lips. Natasha ordered once more, “You must speak English, Peter. For your own safety, for the preservation of your own life. You know what happened – you remember. Down in the basement.”

The words died instantly.

Peter’s sobbing ceased.

His eyes bloomed with terror, and Natasha nodded in confirmation, “Good, now listen. We’ve removed you from Russia…You are now in England…Where you can be protected here at Stark Manor. You are no longer Tsarevich of Russia. You are Peter. You are no longer the son of Tsar Richard and Tsarina Mary, you are the illegitimate son of Lord Anthony Edward Stark. You no longer speak Russian, you speak English, without traces of your language to the best of your ability. From this day onward, you never speak of Before the basement. Do you understand?”

It was so blunt, Tony was almost sick to his stomach and he wasn’t even the one being torn to shreds. An entire identity blown to pieces in a matter of second, and the child looked completely baffled by this. Twelve-years-old, and told he would no longer be able to be the person he was born into. The person he had grown into. His language, his parents, the people and the country he loved no longer belonged to him. Tony found himself feeling inexplicably sorry.

Peter said nothing, but a word was uttered in Russian and Natasha snapped, “English.”

Her hardness, while Tony knew was best for the boy, was nauseating. They had to scare him to make him understand, to frighten his own existence out of him. To replace it with something that wasn’t his own. Peter’s lower lip trembled, his face looked betrayed as he looked at all of the adults in the room.

“Yes.”

Peter croaked, weakly. It was strong English, not what Tony expected from someone who spoke their home tongue so clearly. It was quite clear, and the boy’s shoulders hunched, and Natasha finally gave him space, everyone did. They moved away from him, but Tony stayed in place, staring down at the kid. Wide-brown eyes looked up at him…He appeared small and bruised.

Tony feared this.

He was terrified of it.

…

…

…

_July 31 st, 1918_

Peter did not know the people he woke to.

He didn’t care to know them, and he didn’t try to learn their names. He hardly tried to do anything, much less eat. Peter was almost certain he had been there at least a day and half, and had yet to touch the meals the people in uniforms brought to him in his room. He had hardly seen the adults, or the soldier, Steve Rogers, who had rescued him. Peter found himself wishing he had died in that back of that truck…Or in that basement. Because at least then he could have died himself, with his aunt and uncle.

He hardly spoke, because they forced English out of him. He was addressed now as ‘Young Master’ by many of them that gave him strange side-eyes and looked at him oddly. Disbelieving, and he knew he was the pretend child of their lord. Someone Peter had yet to have a true conversation with. Silence filtered, Peter missed home more than ever, even more than when he was in captivity. His insides twisted, and he was nauseated constantly, which made the eating worse.

Peter knew it was morning when The Lord came in.

This time it wasn’t a servant carrying the meal, it was him…Anthony Stark. Peter was frightened of him, but not as much as he had been of the woman who had repeatedly told him he was no longer a Parker, no longer an heir. That their lives depended on his submission. But toast was brought, the jam, the drink, and yet The Lord said nothing until the food was placed in his lap on a tray.

“You’ll need to eat at least half.”

Peter paused, fingers digging into the blankets. He blinked up at Lord Stark and he opened his mouth, but English almost didn’t come out. He thought hard, about where and how his mouth was meant to move and he replied, “I’m not hungry.”

“Hm, seems odd…considering you’ve not eaten in some time, at least according to our ‘friends’,” Peter heard the emphasis on the word, “A part of the healing from your wounds is feeding your body. Also, you are growing, which means you’re expected to eat. So, as I said. At least half.”

Peter felt terribly petulant, but he wasn’t sure if that was his right after what had happened or not. If he was allowed to feel the way he did or if it was wrong somehow considering these people had saved him from certain death. His mouth set in a line, and he looked away – the giant French windows showing a large grassy yard outside. Peter grabbed the edges of the tray and pushed it aside onto the comforter before he moved onto his knees. The women in the uniforms had changed him into fresh clothing, much like they had done in the palace before his captivity had begun. A pajama gown, below his knees and plopped onto his bare feet, rushing across the wood floor towards the window, as quickly as his weak legs would allow him to go.

The Lord’s voice ordered, sounding slightly annoyed, “Careful.”

Peter grabbed the frame of the window and stared out. There were men cutting the hedges, trimming the lawn, taking care of flowers. It was nearly like being home again, before being moved to the house with the basement, with the gunpowder, with the blood. Peter’s fingernails dug into the wood, and he swallowed a bit thickly, blinking until a hand wrapped around his upper arm.

“Christ, see how thin you are, come eat.”

The Lord sounded more irritated with him. Peter stared up, and blinked, before tugging on the arm that wasn’t released. He pointed to the lawn and he said, “I’d like to go out there.”

The Lord looked slightly taken aback. Peter had to reevaluated if he had said it in English or not, but he was almost certain he had. The Lord then replied, “Well you may, if you eat…But going outside requires you eat all of it, not just half.”

Peter’s jaw dropped.

“That’s hardly fair!”

“It’s incredibly fair,” The Lord replied, and he pulled on Peter’s arm towards the bed. He was released when The Lord had decided he was going to climb back in and the tray of food was returned to his lap, “If you’re to be walking around, you’ll need more. Otherwise you’ll stay in bed like the nurses suggested.”

Peter’s mouth shut. He looked up into The Lord’s eyes and he searched them. They didn’t resemble the coldness of the guards, and he had been told this place was safe. But he sometimes, frighteningly, wished for the bullets to find him again and again. He wondered if maybe he stopped eating, he could be with his aunt and uncle again. Peter grabbed the toast though, and slowly raised it to his mouth, biting down into it. His hands shook with weakness, he was shocked he had been able to crawl from the bed to begin with. He felt The Lord’s eyes on him with each bite. And as much as Peter wanted to die, the food was good.

Once he started eating, he couldn’t stop until he had eaten most of it.

It was like the heavy sadness had shifted in favor of survival, despite his wishes for it not to. When the tray was empty, it was removed from his lap and set aside, and Peter could hardly look in The Lord’s eyes. Maybe a meal meant bed, then being led to the basement. The door pushed open and a woman in a uniform came in and grabbed the tray, only to stumble slightly and drop it. The clattering of the dishes to the floor morphed, Peter was being riddled with bullets that bounced off the jewels, the maids were shouting in agony, his auntie laid cold and grey and Peter – he could not breathe – could not remain conscious and –

“Stop, stop.”

The orders were not panicked, or sharp. When Peter blinked, he didn’t see blood pooling from his uncle’s scalp. Instead he was vomiting into his lap, screaming as both The Lord and the maid had surged towards him. It was like automatic movement coming from their hands, and the nightgown was unbuttoned, Peter was undressed. The Lord handed him off to the maid, and he disappeared while the maid and a nurse placed him in a cool bath.

An hour later, Peter hardly remembered what had startled him.

…

…

…

_July 31 st, 1918_

“No loud noises.”

Pepper looked up from her papers. Tony wished she would stop working for five seconds. Their entire household had turned upside down in a matter of two days. The summer heat was only scalding the panic more. Their guests were elsewhere on the grounds, Tony would be abandoned in the next week or so, whenever they could make leave. Payments had been made, but for what? He had been brought a child to raise in his own name, a child that had nearly bolted at the sound of a tray being dropped.

The woman replied, “What?”

“The boy,” Tony answered, sounding annoyed, unjoking, he couldn’t remember the last time he had been in such dread, “Loud sounds frighten him, I want silence. We’ll have to push back building that idiotic shed back there, I don’t want any hammers waving about –“

Pepper sighed, “The boy will have to adjust…”

“Well until then, silence,” Tony whirled, “He’s traumatized, absolutely so and I…I asked Rhodes if I was really so awful for wanting to turn him away and maybe I am. I don’t know what a child needs or wants – my own father threw me for such things, if I showed the slightest amount of emotion. What do I do with that, Miss Potts? Do I coddle him? This child that I’m being ordered to pass my name to?”

She looked away, “You’re making this so much harder than it needs to be. Does Howard Stark’s behavior really impede you so from showing that boy even the slightest bit of compassion? He’s twelve years old and his family has been executed – he has lost his entire country and he’s not even allowed to speak his language or claim his mother and father anymore. The least you could do is be soft with him.”

“Soft is such a lazy term for something few understand. We use it mindlessly. You want to know what I think soft truly is?” Tony questioned, “I think it is something only some are born with, and I was not. How could I be? Romanoff damned that boy the moment she and Nicholas Fury decided this was the place to bring him. A cold and dark manor that I’ve spent my entire life trying to dig from the shadow of my father.”

Pepper glared, “The further you dig, sir, the darker it gets.”

Tony was silent but continued to glare. He whirled towards the door though, and ordered over his shoulder, “No loud noises, Miss Potts. And a nurse should be with him at all times.”

He entered the hallway, welcomed into complete quiet. As he shut the door, he leaned against it, inhaling and expanding his ribcage. He itched for a drink, and moved, step by step towards the study just a few feet from Miss Pott’s own. The door was slightly ajar and Tony pushed his way inside, going towards the cart in the corner of the room, that Jarvis had no doubt hidden some of the bottle from. The poor butler was filled to the brim with the new stress of hiding the Russian heir in their manor, and lying about it for the rest of the child’s natural life. Tony poured the drink with shaky hands into the glass before raising the bitter liquid to his lips and welcoming the burn as it charred the inside of his throat.

“Early for a drink.”

Tony turned to the door. Light glittered in from the hallway, and appeared Steven Rogers, his father’s science experiment. Hired help, really, that Tony had called upon in a time of need, but that had passed and backfired viciously. It had ended with a child he didn’t know inside of his house, having vomited on himself, after Tony had forced him to eat in exchange to go outside and there they were.

Tony made a face as the liquor went down, “Little early to become a father in less than seventy-two hours, yet here we are.”

Steve leaned against the doorframe. His eyes settle downward in deep thought and he let out a breath before replying, “We knew it would be difficult for you…but the boy is in need of somewhere and since you were the one who had hired us to check into the family, it only seemed fitting that he be brought back here for protection. The alias, the cover up, convincing him that this is his life now…It’ll stop any future uprising.”

“Uprising,” Tony echoed, “Like what? A claim to the Russian throne? Risking the exposure of you and your friend and Romanoff?”

“And you,” Steve said sharply, as he stood to full height, “Listen to me…We don’t know how long this revolution could last. It could be years – and if the boy turns eighteen and decides he’s going to go looking for his throne…it could mean certain death. Assassinations. The whole thing. It’s better to just…pretend it never existed.”

Tony scoffed, “Pretend Imperial Russia never existed. Right…And is this your idea, or Fury’s?”

“This was the consensus,” Steve answered, “The best way to protect the boy and ourselves. Protect him…Move on. Give him a comfortable life. As best as he can be given, considering the circumstances and the trauma he has endured. One day…maybe these new memories he makes here can outweigh the old ones. There have been stories, of people living new lives so long they begin to believe they are true, especially children – “

“Captivity, Rogers,” Tony growled, slamming his glass down so hard it nearly cracked, “You’re speaking of captivity. People held so long they forget who they once were. Does that not seem the slightest bit immoral to you or am I simply being paranoid?”

“You’re being afraid.”

Tony looked up sharply, eyes narrowing.

“Afraid?” He hissed, “Hardly. I’m being logical. Which seems to be an oddity amongst you heathens.”

…

…

…

_ August 3rd, 1918 _

Peter slept for two more days.

Both days were spent in and out of sleep. Staring out the window at the lawn that was large and vast and like the one back at the palace. Before the captivity, before the revolution, before the men in coats had come and taken him, his uncle, and his aunt. He listened to the yard men work every morning, through the day, as if the grass grew every moment. But he supposed if they lived on the grounds that was what was expected of them.

A nurse came constantly. She read to him, another maid brought food. Warm porridge that he so despised, they had taken the better food in favor of it, because they decided his body couldn’t handle so much, having been locked away so long with such little rations. They made him drink some strange gunk that was meant to help his nutrition improve faster, and he absolutely hated it, but supposedly is was sent up by a woman referred to as Miss Potts. He supposed she wasn’t The Lady of the house, but they talked about her like she was.

The nurse was quite young, and gentle, but she was firm enough to force porridge into his mouth. But on the third day, she had decided Peter had a fever, and Peter had about decided the same thing because he could hardly keep his eyes open. They kept redressing the grazes from the bullets, particularly the one near his eyebrow and he so hated that. He screamed and fought through the fever haze as they poured the burning liquid over his head.

Hands held down his arms, and it was then, as he sobbed, fever driven into the ceiling, that he heard The Lord’s voice from the doorway.

“What in Christ’s name are you doing?”

“The fever sir, we’re trying to make sure his wounds are clean and he is being very contrary –“

“Because you’re pouring antiseptic into open gashes, Mary and Joseph,” He heard the footsteps, then he saw The Lord standing over him. He looked concerned, and angry, and not willing to touch him. Peter’s lower lip trembled, and he wanted to cry out for his auntie, but he was embarrassed to do so. The heir to the Russian throne couldn’t cry, but he was, and he just wanted her. He missed her so desperately it felt like someone had shoved a penknife into his chest.

Peter was being shoved down into the mattress by the maids, the pillow was losing feathers. The Lord lost his patience after some time and pushed one of the women aside, though not harshly before reaching down and taking Peter under his arms. Peter was pulled upward, as the nurse continued to work. His forehead was finished, and Peter stared at The Lord’s face, taking in his furrowed brow and his worry lines while the nurse moved on to the next wound on his knee.

The tears stopped quite suddenly, and Peter felt as if he had been shocked by a revelation.

“My mama and papa kept a picture of you.”

The Lord’s head whipped towards him. He looked at the maids distrusting, and they looked away as if pretending they had heard nothing. A hand grabbed his jaw, not too forcefully, but enough to turn his head into The Lord’s shoulder. The Lord whispered into his ears, voice carrying threat that was not his own, but the threat of the revolution back home…

“Remember what Romanoff said…I must be your father now.”

It meant certain death, to claim his own family and his language. When The Lord pulled away, Peter felt his lower lip shake uncontrollably. His chest quaked and he wished for the fever to take him to his auntie.

…

…

…

_ August 4th, 1918 _

Day four the fever worsened.

The drew an ice bath. Tony was against it, of course, he had read dreadful things about putting fevered children into ice baths, but many of the women still worked those practices and he was desperate for anything at that point.

He took the boy into his arms, both dressed in their night wear, as it was nearing midnight when the fever peaked to deadly levels. Slowly, Tony sunk into the bath, as the nurse and maids helped him and Pepper stood in the doorway, her face sunken with concern. Maybe Rogers and Wilson had rescued the boy for no reason at all. He would die of a fever and their worries would resolve themselves, but that wasn’t what Tony wanted, and he wasn’t sure why he cared at all.

Tony cursed in the ice and pulled Peter’s back to his chest as he shivered and looked around the room.

His eyes met Miss Potts’ and his teeth chattered as he rested his chin to the boy’s scalp…

“Is this compassion enough, Miss Potts?”

She said nothing.

…

…

…

_August 5 th, 1918_

The next morning, Natasha Romanoff, Steve Rogers, and Sam Wilson took their leave.

Rhodes stayed behind…Banner was called from down the way.

It was more to avoid Miss Potts’ wishes to call Doctor Strange. Even if Banner had not practiced in some time, he didn’t care. It was quicker than having Doctor Strange come from London anyway, and Banner was just as capable even if he had not been exposed to the wounds of the war. Peter was hardly suffering from an amputated arm or leg due to an explosion, or poison from some kind of gas thrown into a trench. His own body was killing him and if it wasn’t the wounds, if it wasn’t blood poisoning, then Tony didn’t know how to help him and he just simply hoped Banner did.

Tony had taken to pacing in the child’s room constantly. Despite his urge to retreat to his shop, he couldn’t bring himself to do it, even if he could not touch the child for fear of hurting his frail and thin body. The boy was pale, they had been shoving food down his throat at every moment of consciousness.

He waited outside for Banner who walked his way over. The man hated carriages, almost as much as Tony did, the way they shook and were so rough. Tony shoved his hands deep in his pockets as he walked down the front steps of the manor, waiting as Bruce approached. The man smiled grimly at Tony, holding a black brief case in his hand before using the other to extend.

“I have to say, I was surprised to receive a message from you. I had assumed you were the one who had fallen ill from all that alcohol you enjoy consuming.”

Tony shook his head and sighed, beginning to lead Banner up to the manor, “Don’t be so cruel to me, Banner. I’ve been tested as of late, and I need the love and support of a true friend. As well as a physician to repair this crisis we’re experiencing.”

“And who is the source of this crisis?”

Tony didn’t speak for a moment. Mostly because his mind was trying to gather up whether or not he should lie to Banner. No one outside of their circle was meant to know that the boy upstairs was the heir to the Russian throne that had toppled some weeks ago. That he had survived the massacre of his entire family. So many things. And so Tony inhaled deeply, grabbed the handle to the front door, and paused, before looking back at Banner.

“My child.”

Banner’s eyes went wide, shock covering his feature. He stepped forward, “ _Your_ child?”

“Yes,” Tony tried to force confidence into his tone, “Twelve years old, his name is Peter. His mother died and he has come to stay with me but he is very unwell at the moment. I would appreciate if this information didn’t leave my home though, Banner. I’m not quite ready for the press that it’s sure to cause.”

Mostly because if the press somehow got a picture, and the boy was compared to that of the supposedly dead prince, a lot would unfold following it. A lot that Tony didn’t want to deal with. A lot that would endanger everyone. Bruce was completely quiet, shock still clear on his face and Tony cleared his throat, “What? Is it so unbelievable I could father someone?”

“Not unbelievable, I know your history,” Banner shrugged, and Tony narrowed his eyes, “Just…Claiming an illegitimate child, that’s very…”

“Please don’t say brave or honorable,” Tony hissed, “It is not brave or honorable to take responsibility for one’s actions.”

That was something he could hardly stand. Royals, nobles, whatever they were not taking responsibility for their actions, and the children that were sometimes the results of those actions. Tony opened the door and didn’t wait for a response before he began to lead Bruce up to the bedroom on the next floor up. Peter was lying on the bed, the nurse sitting nearby dabbing a rag on his forehead. The boy’s chest was rising and falling as if strained, and the nurse stepped back at the sight of Banner entering. Some feared the man, there had been rumors in the past of why he stopped practicing, but Tony refused to believe any of them.

Their enemies in the war had done worse than experiment on themselves, they had experimented on others.

Bruce set down his brief case, opening it and pulling out a stethoscope. He undid a few buttons over Peter’s chest and pressed the object, moving it around a few times. Tony stepped back, looking away, and pretended not to notice the way Peter’s eyes kept trying to flutter open but he was too weak to be capable of it. Tony swallowed thickly, downed the emotion that was trying to attack him and looked away, averted his attention and pretended not to be there in that situation.

It didn’t take long for the verdict to arrive.

“Spanish influenza.”

…

…

…

_ August 10th, 1918 _

A terror struck their household, though no one else fell ill. Which in itself was a miracle considering how many of them had been touching the boy.

Tony didn’t know if the boy’s weakened state had made him more susceptible, but he didn’t ask so many questions. They just worked to make Peter comfortable considering there were very little treatments that could be offered. Cold rags were kept and changed on his body, they did their best to give liquid. Time and effort was invested to the point that days ran together and Tony was almost sure four passed before they saw the slightest sign of improvement.

Then another day and the fever broke.

It was the early hours of the morning, the window had been opened to allow in fresh air, and it was as if the smell of grass had roused the boy from his fever driven existence and Bruce had woken him with a sharp shake of his arm.

“The boy’s fever is broken…We can move from here.”

And they did. Slowly Peter rejoined them. There were tears, from the boy, in his confused and seemingly drugged state of existence, but Tony figured he didn’t know where he was and no one was familiar enough to calm him. He simply called for his ‘Auntie’ whom Tony could not provide him with. Tony watched his pale cheeks return with color, especially after an entire bowl of porridge was able to be fed to him, and water was poured down his throat. Finally, he didn’t look like a slumbering corpse, but like an actual boy.

He continued trying to speak Russian, for which Tony would shush him vehemently, reminding him ‘English, English Peter’. Bruce didn’t question why his illegitimate son would have a different tongue than everyone else. Maybe he figured it had something to do with the nonexistent mother Tony had supposedly had ‘relations’ with. Either way, no questions were posed, and Tony appreciated it vastly.

Peter eventually drew enough strength to look at him, to see him, and they were alone when Bruce went to retrieve supplies from his home down the way. Peter made a face at him, and he spoke weakly, “Must I never speak of them again?”

Tony felt guilt. But he remembered Natasha Romanoff’s words, he remembered Nicholas Fury’s indirect orders. He remembered the risk that could befall not just him but everyone involved, including the child. And so Tony shook his head.

“You mustn’t.”

“And must I always speak English?”

“You must.”

Those round brown eyes welled with tears. Tony swallowed down grief, grief he felt for the boy he hardly knew, but was a surrogate child forced upon him by secrecy. Stripping someone of their entire identity felt like the worst sort of violation and he hated himself for it. Tony looked away, outside, as he heard Peter’s already weak body wrack with tears. Then the little voice returned, “I should have died too.”

Tony’s head whipped in his direction, “That’s hardly the way to see it.”

“Why not? I could…I could be happy. But I dream…A-and I see them, in that basement, pointing the guns at us and shooting us like we’re dogs or something…I don’t know how to make it go away, it always smells like powder and my auntie’s screaming is always there.”

The man stared and Tony felt his body begin to physically ache within. Peter looked so small sunken into those pillows. His face so sickly. His hands were gripping the quilt thrown over his tiny body and Tony stepped around the bed away from the window. He approached with methodical steps towards him, standing close, and inhaling.

“What happened to you was horrid,” Tony admitted, “And I don’t blame you for thinking the way that you do. But…those who loved you, would be very pleased that you are alive. Remember that. Cling to that.”

Peter’s eyes went wide, but just a moment. As if remembering his aunt and uncle. His mother and father. Peter mumbled, “It’s hard. I want it to be easy.”

Tony remember looking into his mother’s dead face.

“It gets to be a bit easier. It won’t go away but it will soothe.”

He hadn’t imagined they would bond over being orphaned. But there they were.

…

…

…

_ August 17th, 1918 _

Peter didn’t remember much of the recovery from the fever. Only that it was terribly awful to drink that tonic every day that the doctor named Banner forced upon him. It was gooey and thick and practically sludge that tasted so bitter he nearly vomited every time he had to drink it. It didn’t make him feel better in the slightest, but then again he was slowly regaining strength and so he couldn’t be sure.

He would never admit it was the tonic that could have healed him though.

Soon, the bandages on the grazes followed. They were removed. He was allowed to eat more than just porridge. Though standing and walking was still a trial, his knees still shook with each step and he still stared out the window, longing for that back lawn. He felt no more enlightened by yet another near-death experience than he had before. Instead he was brought even more into this crisis of wondering why he was still alive and how his body had yet again betrayed him and allowed him to survive without his uncle and aunt. Without his country and without his language.

The Lord would come, often, but he still seemed distant despite the fact he spoke more and more to Peter. He would bring things like sweets and small trinkets, Peter had a little mechanical flower that wiggled when close to the window that Mister Stark had made himself. A secret, supposedly something that could read sunlight and it was before its time, but Peter was allowed to keep it.

But that day was different, Peter could tell. The way that The Lord came in, the way that he was carrying a blanket and wrapped it tightly around Peter’s shoulders. The sun was shining particularly bright. It was warm, so he wondered about the quilt, but didn’t ask. The Lord leaned downward, close and whispered, “May I lift you?”

Peter nodded. Hands snaked under him and he was lifted from the bed. Carried almost like a giant infant and Peter put his arms around The Lord’s shoulders. They rushed from the room, and Peter questioned as they made their way down the steps, “Why are we running?”

“Miss Potts would be most displeased with what I’m doing. We must hide, you and I. She is terribly frightening when provoked.”

A small smile tickled Peter’s mouth, though he still felt a little afraid. He didn’t quite know Miss Potts well enough to believe him or not. He had never really had a conversation with her, but they were pushing through the back French doors and for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, Peter felt the sun kiss his skin. They made their way down the steps, onto the back lawn and Peter squirmed a bit, desperate to touch the grass when he realized this was what they were doing. They were coming outside.

His cheeks burned from the light, it was hot, but he did not care as The Lord shushed him to calm his movements, and ordered, “Patient, patient, just a second.”

They kneeled and Peter felt the quilt touch the grass. Slowly, The Lord unfolded the blanket and Peter found himself sitting on the quilt surrounded by the inviting green lawn that was perfectly kempt. Maybe he was meant to stay sitting, as he looked up at The Lord, at the creases in his face. Peter reached up, grabbing into the fabric of The Lord’s shirt as he requested eagerly, “Please, help me stand.”

He nearly said it in Russian he was so excited. The Lord glanced towards the house, then back down at him. Hands hooked below his armpits and he was pulled upward, and Peter couldn’t find it in him to be embarrassed that he was outside in a nightgown. He grinned widely, magnificently, and he felt The Lord staring at his face as the boy focused on putting on foot in front of the other. The quilt soon disappeared, and his toes touched the prickly grass that somehow felt like heaven and he imagined this was what his auntie was walking upon at that very moment.

Peter clung to The Lord, glancing into his face once more and he smiled, the bright light above them surely giving him a sunburn but he couldn’t care. The grass was perfect, the people working on the lawn casted curious glances but said nothing. The birds were screaming and for the first time since that night in the basement, Peter felt he should be alive.

“I missed it.”

The Lord tilted his head, “Missed what?”

“Being a person.”


	2. Epoch 2.0

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> September 3rd - 28th.

_ September 3rd, 1918 _

Peter had been in the manor approximately three months.

Things changed drastically, though Tony did not realize it at first. The boy often hung around in silence, he avoided the teacher that was there purely to assist in ridding him of his accent. Sometimes he hid in the oddest of places and it frustrated Tony to the ends of the Earth. Though part of him understood the boy’s reluctance, even if he would never truly-and-wholly comprehend it, the anger was a part of it, the frustration was constantly blooming from it. Tony was angry too, and he felt poorly for being that way.

It ashamed him to say he hid in his workshop a lot. That he hid in the study. That he avoided the newfound responsibility that having Peter in the manor brought. He couldn’t remember the last time he had not worried. Deep down that the boy had not attended lessons, that the nurses weren’t keeping an eye on him, that he hadn’t eaten dinner (something he had a habit of doing and the boy was just terribly small to be twelve-years-old).

Those worries were pushed further that September evening, when a knock came on the study door even after he had requested no one disturb him. He had been doing nothing, but still…the request had been made and it annoyed him when the door began to open without him calling them to enter, but he knew it was Pepper because she would be the only one who dared. He was never cruel to the staff, but his father had been, and therefore some still feared the man he was. It made it much easier to find peace and solitude though, so he did very little to refute their preexisting beliefs about his character.

“Miss Potts,” Tony greeted in a sigh, “I thought I asked for no disturbances.”

She raised an eyebrow, standing in the doorway, “And for what? To stare at the walls pondering your cowardice?”

His brows furrowed, and he leaned back in his chair, holding his chest, “You wound me. That actually smarted a bit. What have I done to deserve to be abused? For your information, I wasn’t just staring at the wall, I was also making notes of devices I’d like to acquire at the next city auction so…Be patient with me.”

“What have you done?” She questioned, echoed, then, “Well sir, it seems you’ve been avoiding your new charge. Even after all of the progress you made, now that he is well and adjusting, you’ve seemingly dropped off the face of his Earth. It’s nauseating, and he has yet to gain a pound since being with us, which is an issue.”

Tony blinked, “Is that why you’ve come? To abuse me?”

“I’ve come to inform you that he refuses to eat,” Pepper tilted her head to the side, “The nurses have been trying all day. He can hardly get up from the bed, and still avoids what they’ve brought him. Not to mention, he hardly speaks anymore with that teacher floating about trying to catch a free moment in order to strip him of his tongue –“

“You know very well why we must,” Tony actually felt anger, looking at her with a heated expression, “Do not pretend what I’m doing it to be cruel. They said strip everything, and that is one of the most outward indicators that he isn’t English-Born.”

Tony then pushed himself to his feet, straightening his shoulders in a bit of determination, still feeling frustration for the accusatory tone she had taken. He wanted to prove her wrong, maybe, maybe prove the boy could be happy there without much intervention on his own part. He wondered if maybe he really was cowardly, or lazy, or something else. Maybe he was Howard Stark, something evil. He moved around the desk, and then around her out into the hallway.

Pepper called behind him…

“Be gentle. He longs for an affection those nurses can offer only so much of.”

Tony paused, turning to look back at her. There was a space between them, as he studied her face in the darkness of the hallway. He swallowed past a lump in his throat, he tried to think. He folded his hands together and asked, “And what can I offer?”

“More than your father offered you.”

“I am not – “

“Don’t,” She interrupted, “If you’re stripping him of everything, fine, so be it. But be consistent. If behind closed doors he cannot speak Russian, then behind closed doors you cannot deny him as a son.”

He bit the inside of his mouth, then, “You ask so much of me.”

“If that is so much…then why did you not deny Fury in the first place?”

Tony fell silent, before whirling back around and retreating. He didn’t want to talk on the subject anymore, he didn’t feel like it and he allowed the lit candles to lead him down the halls…away from her and her words and the truth behind them. He felt fingernails in his palms and it took a moment to realize it was himself, as idiotic as it sounded. Maybe he felt guilt, and when the thing he was guilty for was pointed out, it angered him. He knew what he had agreed to, and yet he feigned ignorance which was unfair to the boy. He knew it was unfair and yet he continued anyway.

The Lord rounded the corner into Peter’s room. The green walls looked soft to him, and sure enough Peter was in bed with a nurse nearby, trying to put a spoonful of something into his mouth almost like an actual infant. Peter’s mouth refused to budge, and Tony cleared his throat, grabbing the woman’s attention. She paused in what she was doing and Tony entered further, nodding his head over his shoulder for her to go…

The nurse set the bowl aside, took a small curtsy, and made her way out. Tony moved forward towards Peter who was looking at him, blanket drawn up to his neck as if in defense of the woman and now Tony himself. The boy’s eyes watched him, very aware, and Tony tilted his head, grabbing the end of the spoon and stirring the bowl’s contents a bit before commenting, “So…Miss Potts informed me of a bit of a rebellion.”

Peter blinked, voice coming out quiet, like a whisper, “It’s not a rebellion. Rebellions are violent.”

Tony realized his choice of words may not have been the best. He sighed, releasing the spoon before he questioned, “Why aren’t you eating?”

Peter looked away finally, silent, then his eyes returned to Tony. His fingers rose, to chew on the nails, and Tony reached out, removing them. They looked awful as it was, and it was such a terrible habit to have. A way to get sick too, and Peter was so frail Tony worried about it happening again. He held onto the boy’s wrist a for more seconds, and tilted his head, standing over where he was lying. Tony repeated, letting go of the wrist to push his index finger into Peter’s cheek, “Hm? Why?”

Peter shrugged.

“I hate those silent gestures,” Tony huffed, removing his finger from the boy’s face. “Come, speak up.”

“And why?” Peter’s voice sounded venomous suddenly, and not so small, “So that woman will come and tell me how to pronounce ‘a’? Make me repeat things?”

Tony’s eyes narrowed a bit, “You know why that’s necessary. I’ve shown you the letters from Nicholas Fury and Natasha Romanoff. You know the danger you’re in. I am terribly sorry that this must happen to you – but it _must_. Now, enough…we will deal with that issue at a later date, right now you’re starving to death and I must insist you tell me why you are not eating.”

Peter still said nothing, eyes going to look at the quilt. He began to pick at it, and Tony straightened up a bit. He reached out, taking Peter under his arms and pulling upward so Peter was sitting up fully. He looked startled by the sudden movement and Peter cringed just a bit as if Tony had finally lost his mind. Tony grabbed the bowl beside the bed, and said, “Fine. If you don’t want to tell me, you aren’t being forced. But we will sit here and stare at one another into the night until you finally decide to eat.”

The boy blinked a few times, Tony adjust himself on the corner of the mattress and so began the staring contest. Not much of an emotional thing, Tony could hardly read Peter’s face as they sat in front of one another – no one talking – no one saying anything and time ticked on. The ringing of the grandfather clock downstairs helped Tony to keep track of the passing hours and he felt soon he might regret testing the boy, because if he allowed him to out sit him he would never be able to demand another thing from the child.

Hour one, then two, then three, and then countless more. The sun went down…A maid came and lit the bedroom candles so they could see. Peter’s shoulders were shaking, eventually from sitting in the same spot for so long and truthfully Tony felt his age in his spine, but he didn’t relent. He knew he couldn’t, if it meant the boy would starve if he did. Peter’s brown eyes soon seemed to grow heavy, he kept blinking more and more, the dark circles deepened. Tony stirred the spoon, the food was cold, but Peter would need to eat it. It was waiting, an entire waiting competition but Tony didn’t know how else to go about forcing it, without physically shoving the food down Peter’s throat.

Tony knew it was approaching hour seven of sitting there, in agony from his back, that Peter’s eyes watered, exhausted. Sleepily.

One tear slipped through and caressed the boy’s face.

“Lord Stark…” Peter croaked.

Tony had nearly dozed, sitting all the way up with his eyes open when he looked down at the boy sitting in front of him. He saw the hesitance. Peter wasn’t meant to call him that anymore, it was meant to be Father, but it sounded so foreign to both of them, it was almost sickening. Like that in itself was the deepest of the cuts. Having to refer to someone else as his father, Peter was stripped by it. But the correction came, because sometimes they never knew who was listening, and he could hear the way Peter’s throat was closing.

“Father,” Another tear slipped through, clinging to the child’s lashes, “I would like to eat now.”

Suddenly, Tony felt immensely guilty for the wait. He handed the bowl over nonetheless, and watched as Peter devoured the food. It was quick, and then it was gone and Tony wondered why so much time had been spent suffering through that. He finished and Tony took the bowl, standing with the intent to blow the candles out for the night, but Peter stopped him.

“It’s the food, sir.”

Tony raised an eyebrow.

“The food?”

Peter nodded, “You don’t understand…I’ve never much liked English food and it’s all I’m ever served.”

Tony hesitated. He wondered how he had never thought of that. Food probably differed. Tony thought about it all, the words, the food, everything. He thought about Fury and Natasha and then his mind wandered down a hole. He then said…

“I’ll speak with the cook.”

Because by God, he wasn’t going to let the boy starve to death under his roof and he didn’t know if he could experience another night like that one.

…

…

…

_ September 7th, 1918 _

Peter recalled the night he had been forced to sit in front of The Lord and had been reduced to tears with great disdain. He had not wanted to cry in front of him again, a part of him wanted to prove himself, but he didn’t know why. He was not sure what he had to prove. But it was there, inside of him.

Several days passed, the food changed, transformed into things that were more like the Before everyone kept telling him to forget about. He was glad for that one small gift, to have that to hold onto, to carry around with himself. To be able to cling, when he could no longer have his voice – but could have something small in his meals, his desserts, the simple snacks that were brought to him randomly, which he knew deep down to be a peace offering from The Lord himself.

Peter continued his wanderings of the manor though, if only to avoid the teacher. Nameless and faceless in his mind, nurses and maids would find him when need be and he didn’t run from them, only the teacher. But it was on the fourth day of hiding, that he rounded the corner and saw her there, and Peter ducked into the nearest room, hiding under the desk in the corner.

He hadn’t realized it was The Lord’s study.

Peter had laid there for so long hiding from the teacher that his eyes had lulled shut. He had fallen into a sleep, only for the sound of a door shutting and footsteps to startle him into existence. Peter’s lashes fluttered, and he was looking at the underside of the desk when the chair pulled back and a loud curse escaped The Lord, who noticed him for the first time. Peter jumped, looking over at him and he could only see a hand holding a chest, and then Lord Stark was kneeling, reaching.

Hands grabbed his ankles and Peter was slowly pulled from underneath. Lord Stark released him and leaned over, putting hands on his knees, and he questioned, sounding like he was struggling to catch his breath, “ _What_ are you doing?”

“Sleeping.”

“Under my desk?”

“Yes sir.”

Peter laid still on his back, staring wide eyed above him. Lord Stark stood back to full height and nodded his head.

“Right.”

…

…

…

_ September 15th, 1918 _

A bit of a game had been made of it. Maybe not a game, but there was nowhere else in that manor that Peter slept as well as he did under that desk. He felt it was idiotic and it made him angry at himself sometimes. The heir to a country should not be sleeping under desks, but then Peter would bitterly recall that he was no longer an heir, that he would no longer have the chance to change his country, because he was stuck where he was to grow up. Because people had stolen it from them. Some days he did not understand, not at all, and some days he did in the slightest as he recalled the starving and the cries and the wishes for change that could not come because his family had been in power too long.

The grass itched, and the sun was bright that day that he spent on the grounds, following around random grounds keepers and collecting bugs in a jar Miss Potts had allowed him to take. Simple tasks he had once done when much younger, before lessons had begun to become strenuous and he was expected to learn how to rule one day. Now the down time was extremely vast, even if he technically was supposed to be learning. History and all of that, he knew very little of England besides the basic information. The king was George V. That was the extent of it. They were family – all direct descendants of Queen Victoria, and Peter knew it all tied together delicately.

Funnily enough, The Lord still had yet to force him to sit and do lessons with the teacher. As if he was waiting for Peter to go willingly.

Peter had his hand placed over the jar, as he bent down and removed it to put another grasshopper in with several others. When Peter stood back up, he noticed for the first time down the drive, a group of children further out on the dirt path. Peter’s head tilted curiously at them, as they ran about, barefoot and kicking a ball, stirring up dirt. Peter set his jar aside on the fence and approached slowly, listening to their laughter that erupted and into the sky. The air was bearable now, not so hot any longer from the long summer. September had brought relaxation and soon enough Peter was nearing the dirt road, far from the giant manor at the end of the path that was centered around the large fountain.

Their playing paused and Peter took them in. Two girls and two boys. They shifted in front of him and Peter felt awkward. Many of his friends growing up had been the children of servants or other nobles. People that might have felt pressured into being his friend. While they stood in silence, one of the boys stepped forward. He was the largest of the group, and he looked at Peter curiously.

“Hello,” He said, coming close and Peter almost stepped back because of how quickly he did. His hand was offered, Peter flinched but he didn’t think the other boy noticed, “I’m Ned Leeds.”

Peter hesitated. His formal introduction was on his lips, Russian and all, and he swallowed it. Instead he took the hand, his own, trembling as he croaked past a lying mouth, “I…I’m Peter.”

“Peter,” Ned Leeds echoed, as his hand was released, “We’ve seen you roaming around Stark’s Manor for a few weeks now…I suggested we ask you to play, but they said you were probably working.”

Peter’s brows furrowed, “Working?”

“As a servant,” He clarified, “You’re one of Lord Stark’s, yes?”

Peter bit his lower lip. He hesitated, but he supposed he would have to learn to tell the story smoothly soon enough. His body went rigid and he straightened his shoulders a bit to keep from becoming upset within his lie. He didn’t want to be. He didn’t want to cry. So, he took it back and shook his head, trying to sound confident, “No…Lord Stark is my…father.”

The other boy behind him shouted, almost petulantly, “Bollocks! Lord Stark isn’t even wed yet, you idiot!”

The girl with curly hair shoved his arm, “Be quiet, Eugene.”

“Don’t call me that.”

The girl said nothing further and Peter felt his face burn. His mind rushed with blood and he looked at Ned’s face. Ned looked…not angry like the other boy, but rather was staring with amazement. Peter inhaled and chewed the inside of his cheek before he explained further, to push the subject down a bit but answer the accusation, “He and my mother weren’t wed.”

He could tell the boy called Eugene wanted to say something else, but the girl pinched his arm. The other girl stood by idly, blonde hair tied back. Ned Leeds continued to look amazed as he stepped even closer and Peter’s eyes went wide, “You live inside the manor then? Oh God! Is it filled with contraptions like they say? Does he build flying machines?”

“Oh Ned, leave him be,” The blonde girl insisted.

“No flying machines,” Peter answered, despite the girl’s trying to defend him, “Not that I’ve seen, anyway. I haven’t gone into his shop though, there very well could be some in there. I always hear him arguing with Miss Potts about ‘silly inventions’.”

Ned Leeds was grinning from ear to ear and Peter couldn’t help but smile a bit too. It was nice, looking at people that weren’t adults, even if the other boy looked like he hated Peter for no reason at all. Ned stepped away, his feet covered in dirt as he pointed towards the ball a few feet away, and asked, “Do you want to play with us?”

Moments passed. Brief and fast, like nothing, and Peter didn’t know why his throat clogged with emotion. A smile formed, growing, and it widened as he nodded his head.

“Yes.”

That night, after having played with the other children in the yard all day, Peter laid in bed after his bath. Lord Stark entered, just as the maids were removing the bath water. He sunk into the feather pillows when the man approached, brows furrowed, and he gestured behind himself towards the hall which they had excited through.

“Did you roll in the dirt today?”

Peter grinned and nodded.

…

…

…

_ September 18th, 1918 _

Tony thought, it was an uphill battle.

Peter had made friends with some of the children down the way. Which was worrying to him, only because they had yet to completely established boundaries. But he didn’t have it in his heart to tell Peter he could not see the other children, particularly the Leeds boy, who he seemed to favor. So Tony was concerned silently, devoured by that worry that he ignored so vehemently, and instead watched each day out the window as Peter ran and slowly became stronger, as he ate more and color returned to his skin and he seemed pleased to be alive.

It was uphill, because at night things were different.

It seemed, things worsened in the night.

The first time it happened, Tony did not know what it was. The wailing sounded lost, completely and wholly lost – like a void ocean. Then the screaming, and Tony flew from his bed as if a phantom had invaded his home and he rushed down the hallways that were barely lit with a few candles to minimize the risks of it. There were servants lining the walls, and soon he found the boy, at the end of one, outside of his room…several feet from it in fact, his eyes wide open, standing in the corner letting out deeply engrained sobs that shook his entire body. He looked like a ghost in his white nightgown, and no one was touching him, just watching with horror on their faces.

Jarvis grabbed his arm to stop him from approaching, and he said, “Sir, I believe it is a terror.”

“He looks as if he’s possessed!” One of the maids said, though Tony didn’t bother to see who it was. People still feared such things, but this was a child, with his tiny hands in fists, wailing and screaming like a broken thing. Tony pulled from Jarvis and surged forward, kneeling in front of Peter and grabbing his tear stained face. He felt all the eyes on them, Peter’s screaming didn’t calm at the touch but he didn’t flinch from it either. He hooked his hands under Peter’s arms and lifted him up, holding him against his chest as he retreated back to the green room – Peter’s room – and away from prying stares.

Tony held Peter, shushing as he rushed to the bed, he sat upon it, holding Peter close to his chest just as the boy’s mouth opened and several Russian words exited. Tony cringed, placing a hand over the boy’s mouth causing him to squirm heavily and Tony tried to shush louder than the crying, as he insisted, “Peter – Peter it’s alright. It’s alright, it’s only a dream.”

And yet his eyes were open. He was looking at Tony. How could that be a dream? Tony continued trying to smother the Russian, for fear of the servants still listening in. He trusted Jarvis to send them all off, but he didn’t know if they would obey. Tony didn’t know what to do, he did not know how to silence him completely. How to calm a child with a nightmare. Peter pushed at Tony’s chest where he was holding him in a vise grip, close to himself to control the limbs.

Tony grabbed the back of Peter’s head, turning him enough to face him. He remembered Natasha Romanoff’s hand rising to strike Peter in his panic, and Tony fought down the urge to shake Peter viciously. Anything to stop the horrible cries and the way his eyes looked so empty and glassy. Tony reached upward and pinched the side of Peter’s cheek. When that didn’t work, he moved his hand to Peter’s upper arm, taking in a deep breath before he pinched down on the tender skin on the back of his arm.

There was a different sort of cry. Not terrified like the others, but this one was startled. Peter flinched away from Tony’s fingers and he blinked, once, twice, three times before the glassiness faded just a bit and Peter seemed to focus. He was held close, and Peter stared up for a while, studying Tony’s face and he didn’t miss the way he went from frightened, to confused, to ashamed all at the same time. He watched Peter reach for his arm where Tony had pinched down but he made no verbal complaint.

“Alright,” Tony breathed, “Alright…”

The tears on Peter’s face seemed to cease as soon as he was lucid. He was aware. Tony was sorry. To his surprise Peter was the one who broke their quiet, his eyes moving away to the ceiling and filling back up with more tears.

“They shot my uncle first, you know?”

Tony’s fingers tightened on Peter and he wondered if he was hurting him, but Peter still didn’t complain. Their embrace was not comfortable, or comforting, none of the sort. It was necessity. It was a place where control had abandoned, and it needed to be replaced. Peter went on…

“Then my auntie. The servants…”

Shaky breath.

“And then me.”

Peter’s chest spasmed and Tony had to look away and Peter just kept going, but Tony didn’t stop him because he felt it wasn’t fair if he did. To smother down Peter’s upset because he did not want to hear. It was like crying without tears, as if all of Peter’s had dried up in the basement he talked about, “The bullets weren’t piercing me because of the jewels. My auntie wanted to keep them safe, you know…in case. In case we could get away one day. She swore we would be rescued. All of us, but she was wrong. I think that was the only time my auntie has ever been wrong.”

Tony did not know what to say.

So he was blunt.

“I am…very sorry.”

Peter didn’t reply. Instead his eyes closed and his breathing evened out.

Tony was almost certain that was the only time in his life he had ever held a child whilst they slept.

…

…

…

_ September 25th, 1918 _

The house was frightened of the boy after that.

And all the times following.

They called Peter a contrary monster, and sometimes, if Tony heard it – his head would explode off of his shoulders. He threatened stays, jobs, homes, over the nonsense of blaming the boy. Over saying his existence was cursed because God had made it so – being born out of wedlock apparently called of such things. But they did not know Peter was born to be the ruler of Russia, what he had experienced, the suffering it had caused and Tony’s chest opened, people paid for it, despite Pepper’s protests to control his anger in such situations.

His solace was that Peter still played with those children. Still came inside covered in dirt. It was only in the night that the true scars showed themselves. That people seemed to forget, and Peter did as well. The happiness shifted into whatever happened in that basement so many months back. Peter locked it away and Tony could not pry it out. Sometimes he was afraid to. He was afraid of what he would see in the boy that he was slowly growing accustomed to. That had begun to eat, to play, had yet to start learning.

It only became too frightening when he screamed in Russian.

Then there was terror. As isolated as their manor was, he still did not like the idea of anyone hearing it. And as much as it pained him, he was forced to clamp his hand over Peter’s mouth. The only thing that would wake him was the pinching and soon the back of Peter’s arm was littered with small finger sized bruises and Tony could hardly bear the sight of them. It was becoming too routine, too typical. Peter slept under the desk more, for fear of his own bed, and Tony could not blame him.

That night was different in that Peter refused to move from the hiding place.

“I can sleep here.”

“You could,” Tony replied, kneeling, “But it hardly looks comfortable.”

Peter blinked.

“Here I don’t scream. Here they’re not afraid of me.”

So, in a fashion that only he could deem to be satisfactory, Tony slept on the sofa in the study. Sleep came in and out…but it was enough to get through the night, he supposed.

…

…

…

_ September 26th, 1918 _

It rained so hard that day Peter almost thought they would drown.

It was the first day in a long time he could not play with the other kids because no one could leave their homes. Water poured from the roof, attacking the grass under the ledge and tearing it open into fresh soil. Peter frowned deeply staring into the grey morning, and he missed it already even if it had only been a few hours. Time clicked on, it ticked, and Peter did not know what to do with himself. So he stood, arms crossed as he stared and stared as if he expected something to come of it.

Peter did not know what made him think of it. What made him go to the library with the books and pull several from the shelves, what made him look for those papers and pens and roam the hallway, barefoot and still dressed for sleep as no one had come to change him out into day clothes because the rain meant everyone was to stay in and they thought it would deter him from wandering out into the lightning. Peter came around the curve, into the study where the door was open. Lord Stark sat at the desk, looking at papers that Miss Potts had brought to him. Peter had so many books in his arms they were almost too heavy and The Lord looked up to see him.

“Dead God, what are you doing?”

Peter swallowed.

“Would you teach me?”

A hallow quiet flitted by, and The Lord studied him curiously. As if he was almost confused. He tilted his head to the side, and he asked, “Teach you?”

“Yes…Teach me. About you, and here. I’ll listen to you.”

…

…

…

_ September 28th, 1918 _

They dressed Peter nice for the party.

Nobles were coming from all over. Peter did not know what it was for, but it was the first time he had been dressed well ever since before captivity had come and taken him and his family. They buttoned him close to his neck, slipped a coat over his shoulders and combed his hair to be pristine and put together. Peter felt strangely choked, as if he had forgotten what it was like to attend such events, the pressure and the fear of it. Now he was an illegitimate. A child that was not meant to be Lord Stark’s because there was no marriage.

Yet there he was.

Peter remembered wandering for hours, as people dressed nicely poured into the back yard. The tables were set up with white cloths, tiny cakes were put out. Pepper was ordering the servants about madly, and The Lord looked grumpier than usual about the inconvenience. Peter finally found him, inside the foyer, straightening his tie and seemingly readying himself for all of the guests that were streaming up in carriages and long brightly colored dresses. The Lord swiped under his chin and said, “Think of all the things I could be doing with this time, Peter. Not having to swap boring stories.”

“Then why do you do it?” Peter questioned.

“Because…face,” The Lord replied, “It’s face and it’s…a name.”

Peter had lost faith in what a name was when his family had been slaughtered for theirs when they had once been the most revered for it. But he did not say that, not to The Lord whom he had grown fond of, despite himself. Despite being there. Despite feeling so terribly trapped. He wondered if it was because he had no one else to love. If that was why, and it seemed almost too big for his twelve-year-old self to comprehend and yet somehow he was piecing it together.

Soon enough, the back lawn was crowded. The tents were up, the tables, the food. Peter snuck the sweets, despite the nurse who was trying to follow him to force him to eat the actual meals offered. He still struggled to eat their food, but sweets were sweet anywhere, he supposed, and shoved the tiny cakes into his mouth when no one was looking. Something his auntie used to scold him for at their parties back home. It distracted him from the strange looks he got, and the whispering, the women with white gloves covering their mouths as they leaned to each others ears and spoke about him and about who he was. He knew who he was.

He was supposed to be Lord Anthony Stark’s child.

Some women played daft. They pinched his cheeks, called him cute, asked where his ‘father’ was before Peter even had to tell them. They knew – and Peter realized there had to have been whispers about him even before that party. Before they had all come and had laid eyes on him. After the third young woman had pinched him, had asked where his ‘father’ was, had started cooing in a sickening sweet way, Peter had abandoned his desire for the cakes and had gone inside to hide from them.

Maybe he didn’t truly understand that they found The Lord appetizing because of his money, the fact he wasn’t some old widower, that he was fascinating to them because he avoided their parties and for some reason that was more fun. Peter found that odd, he didn’t know why it worked that way. He went towards the front of the house where there were less guests roaming around, but just as he turned into the conservatory, he slammed rather forcefully into someone’s chest.

Peter stumbled back, and looked up, to see a man who looked perplexed, holding Peter’s shoulders to steady him. Then the man smiled, almost wickedly, his bald head shining in the sunlight as he squeezed very tightly and Peter cringed, though his smile looked odd with the grip on Peter’s shoulder. He had a glass in his other hand, brown liquid floating in it as he exclaimed, “Ah! I thought I’d be meeting you for the first time!”

Peter’s eyes went wide with confusion. His shoulders shrunk downward, and he slouched as he almost rolled in on himself. Cautious. The smile was a lot. Peter blinked as he was finally released, and the man went on, “Oh! I guess Tony hasn’t introduced me, my name is Obadiah Stane…I’m one of your father’s very good friends.”

Peter would never get used to The Lord being his father. Peter still said nothing and started to back away more when he bumped someone behind him. Someone grabbed his arm and he looked up to see The Lord there, blinking in confusion at Peter’s discomfort. Obadiah Stane. He sounded loud, obnoxious, announcing who Peter was. Peter knew a lot of people were aware of their fake story, but it still made him uneasy to be spoken about so loudly.

“Obie,” The Lord breathed, “I think you’re intimidating the boy. You can be boisterous when you’ve had a few drinks.”

‘Obie’ waved him off, “Not nearly as much as you are after you’ve had some. I can’t believe you’ve not told the boy about me yet, I’m wounded!”

“There’ve been…pressing matters,” Lord Stark replied, “Surely you understand. A lot of adjusting, figuring things out. It’s a matter of getting comfortable. But we’re getting there, slowly but surely. Anyhow, Peter, this is Obadiah, as he said. He helps to handle things with the company while I, as he says, try to pretend it doesn’t exist.”

There was still a smile on his face, as he looked down at Peter and the boy still felt incredibly uneasy. Peter swallowed thickly, stepping back further into Lord Stark. A hand pinched his cheek, like all of the women, hard and fast. Obadiah Stane then pulled away and commented, “Must favor his mother, hm?”

Peter’s stomach dropped, and The Lord lied smoothly, “He does. It’s fortunate for him.”

As if to sell the lie further, The Lord’s hand reached from behind pushing Peter’s hair back, to make his face clearer. False confidence. Peter remembered learning it – something for future relations. Something he would need later in life and yet now he wasn’t the one utilizing it. He was relieved when Obadiah simply laughed, patting The Lord on the shoulder before leaving them after whispering something in The Lord’s ear about a woman outside who was very ‘flattering’.

Once they were alone, there in the conservatory, Peter allowed his voice to tremble.

“He’s frightening.”

“Obadiah?” Lord Stark questioned, “No…he’s harmless. Discomforting, but harmless.”

That same finger swiped under his chin like it did so many times before. ‘ _Chin_ _up’_. In silence. The Lord turned to leave, going towards the door. Peter piped up, “Lor – F…Father?”

That same pain erupted. As well as the pain on Lord Stark’s face. The silence, the knowing, they were achingly aware of how unnatural it was – how they had to do what was asked of them though for survival. _‘Even behind closed doors, forget’._ But Peter struggled to forget. It was like a lie, as much as he had grown fond of Lord Stark, it was still…untrue.

“Yes?”

Peter inhaled, “I mustn’t…right? Even though we are lying?”

The Lord nodded in confirmation.

“You mustn’t, Peter.”

So he did not. He actively chose to work towards forgetting. What else was there to do? They could not go from there if he kept the guilt, but he had been told lying was wrong, it led to worse things, and so Peter could not imagine the worse things these lies would bring him to. He could not imagine surviving worse things when he already felt as if drowning had brought him so far. His hands were shaky and so was he. His mind faltered.

It confused him.

“But you are not my father.”

“I wasn’t,” The Lord replied, “But I have to be now, you know this.”

Peter shifted, “It’s hard, when they’re touching me, and they think I’m yours and they call you that. I had a father, I had two.”

Lord Stark turned to face him. His eyes held a slight mixture of panic and worry. As if Peter was about to lose control, and really Peter didn’t know. He didn’t feel he would explode, but he had questions. They had been learning together, there were more things to learn. Lord Stark answered, “Now you must only have one.”

“Why is it always a must?”

“Because it is survival,” Lord Stark ground out, clearly growing frustrated.

Peter hesitated, but the words left him, quietly, in a whisper, “Sometimes I’d rather just be...exposed.”

Lord Stark stepped forward without much warning. Peter nearly jumped from his skin when a hand took him by the arm. It held tightly and he looked up, concerned maybe he would be struck, but the hand never came. Instead came a voice, shaky, ordering – vehement…Not like the one he had heard in his room when he had said he would rather be dead all those weeks ago.

“If you consider it…”

It died. It was a threat Lord Stark did not finish. Instead he was released and Lord Stark stepped away. Eyes going void. Then Lord Stark turned to leave again, pausing one last time in the doorway.

“Do not stuff yourself with cake. You’ll sleep horribly.”

…

…

…

_ September 28th, 1918 _

Peter wasn’t sure if Lord Stark was truly angry with him.

Once the clean up had finished, Peter laid out on the lawn, lying flat on his back staring up at the stars that welcomed him into the night. Some shot by and others stayed completely still as the grass stabbed into his hands, freshly cut for the party. Peter hoped they were up there, in that blackness, somewhere immensely happy. Peter felt somewhat comforted that maybe in his misery there was some sort of glee.

He heard the footsteps, then saw the face as it leaned over him.

Lord Stark said, “I believe they are preparing your bath.”

Peter blinked a few times. The grass was itchy.

“Will you still stay in the study tonight?”

Lord Stark sighed.

“Yes Peter. Of course.”


	3. Epoch 3.0

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> December 15th - 25th.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTEEEEEE: There's Russian speaking in this chapter. Just so you know, I'm a boring American, I don't speak Russian. I literally used google translate so it may suck (cause I mean using it for Spanish in high school didn't work so I'm assuming the same is for Russian haha!) So if you actually speak Russian you are perfectly welcome to make fun of me.😂
> 
> Also, I've gotten some questions on here and on tumblr about unmarking the story as completed. The reason it is marked as complete is because this story really wasn't much of a plan, it was more of a oneshot idea and it got continued due to requests. So requests and suggestions for ideas and stuff keep it going. It's fun to write, but this is more of a story for you guys! ❤

_ December 15th, 1918 _

“You shouldn’t worry so much.”

Miss Potts was holding a snow globe between her gloved fingers, her eyes not even meeting Tony’s. She didn’t bother to look up, even though her words held a deeper meaning to him than anything he could express. The toy shop was too crowded, there were too many people. Gifts were being bought up as people prepared to celebrate the first Christmas in some time without the looming threat of war. Soldiers were returned home, people were families once more, and Tony could tell because his toes had been treaded on an indecent amount of times and he was about ready to run outside into the snow and hide from the crowd of Christmas planners. This was the first time he had been in a toy shop since being a child and it was forced upon him by Pepper Potts herself.

_‘If we’re picking out gifts for Peter, you most certainly are coming with me. No arguments.’_

_‘You forget you work for me.’_

_‘You forget your life would fall apart without me, not to mention your business. Now come.’_

Tony sighed and stepped forward, shaking his head as a particularly large woman squeezed through. Children squealed and let toys go wild, bright colors flashing everywhere. He picked up a stuffed toy, and squeezed it to alleviate some stress as he huffed, “This is the first time the boy has been left, I deserve to feel a bit pressured to rush this process. Last night was simply catastrophic, he screamed for hours and then nothing. Nothing. I’d almost prefer him at least wake up and sit with me after throwing me from bed –“

“My God –“ Pepper groaned.

“I’m serious!” Tony waved a hand madly, nearly toppling over a toddler, “Do I call a physician? Not Strange or Banner, surely, neither would know what to do with him. Banner just suggested he be forced to play more often, then he would be too exhausted to dream, but it doesn’t help. Peter plays with those children nearly every day that we’re not drowning in snow. I practically had to force him to come in from sledding the other day so he wouldn’t catch his death.”

Pepper turned, looking annoyed, “You’re being ridiculous. This is a part of the territory, if you want someone to come and look at him so badly, send a letter to Fury and ask him to send someone. Otherwise, we can hardly trust some nobody doctor from off the street, this is psychological, we all know it is. He…he’s almost like those soldiers who have been coming back.”

“But he’s not a soldier,” Tony growled, “He’s a child.”

Pepper handed the snow globe over. Tony looked at it closely and noticed that contained within it was a small version of The Bronze Horseman statue from St. Petersburg. Tony frowned, placing it back on the shelf and Pepper sighed deeply. Tony shook his head, “It will make him upset, and besides Fury would hardly agree.”

“So now we’re following Fury’s orders?”

“When it concerns him forgetting, yes,” Tony snapped.

Pepper placed a hand on the shelf, holding it with her glove wrinkling. She tilted her head towards him, a bit of hair falling from her cap. Her coat was pulled tightly up to her neck, much like his own. She grimaced and then explained, “You know he will never truly forget, right? He will never truly forget his language, or his home, or his parents, aunt and uncle…Those things will be inside of him until the day he dies.”

Tony ground his teeth.

He knew this wasn’t it…But it felt like he was not enough. He didn’t know what he was to the boy, behind the round teary eyes that showed themselves only in the night when the nightmares plagued him. So small, smaller than one would believe a twelve-year-old to be. Tony wasn’t sure how to be enough, what to give him, how to silence the turmoil in the boy’s head. Like he was drowning underneath waves of grief and Tony couldn’t pull him forward and out. It was nearly impossible. And so Tony could not breathe.

Instead, he took a stuffed animal off the shelf, a brown bear. He hooked it under his arm and tilted his head towards her before saying, “This is a bit more discreet, yes?”

Tony moved to the front of the store, moving past adults and children alike to get to the man taking the money. All for one gift, and there was no doubt in his mind Pepper would have _many_ more stores to visit for _many_ more presents. Tony paid for the stuffed animal though, taking it in the big bag and heading out into the snow with Pepper following close behind. The sun was so bright, it bounced off the white and blinded him a bit. Tony looked at her as she adjusted her coat to be more snug and she, sure enough, gestured down the street.

“There is more this way.”

Tony let out a deep breath, but followed nonetheless.

…

…

…

_ December 15th, 1918 _

“It’s the biggest tree I’ve ever seen.”

Ned stood at the base of the Christmas tree in the lounge. Peter watched from the doorway, face still feeling rather numb. Jarvis had just called them inside, apparently under The Lord’s orders that Peter wasn’t to sled for more than two hours. He and Miss Potts had yet to return from the city, and Peter was nearly bored to tears and he had only been inside a few moments. The fire in the fireplace burned brightly, and warmed the room as if it knew Peter’s discomfort was to come from deep within icy fingers and a pink nose.

Peter replied, “I’ve seen bigger.”

“Where!?” Ned whirled and exclaimed, eyes wide. Peter felt a clog form in his throat, when his response nearly bloomed as ‘the palace’ but he could hardly admit such a thing so openly. He nearly choked on the words, pushing them back as he blinked a few times. He grimaced and entered the room further, arms crossed and hand rubbing the flesh from where Jarvis had removed his coat that was damp with snow.

Peter blinked a few times and cleared his throat, “My…my mother’s.”

“Oh…” Ned looked back and forth between Peter and the tree, “Where did you say you were from again?”

Peter chewed the inside of his mouth. He could not remember ever telling Ned where he was from, only that he had come to live with his ‘father’ after his mother had died. The accent forced on his mouth slipped from time to time and Peter struggled to say certain words correctly. It was a practice that was shoved into existence, even in private, so it would become habit, but Peter found he often smothered on those English words. Peter’s mind wracked for an answer and he replied, “S-Scotland.”

“But…you’re English, are you not?”

Peter paused, God, that was stupid. Very stupid. He ran a hand through his hair and he answered, “Well…well, you see the house we stayed in, the big one with the tree was in Scotland. An old manor my mother inherited from her father – the…Anyway, I was raised in Liverpool.”

Ned made a face as if all the information was odd. Ned laughed quietly and went on, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but sometimes I think you sound off. Maybe if you spent a lot of time in different places, that’s why. Even my mother says you speak like an Easterner at times.”

Peter laughed awkwardly, “Yes…that could be it. We traveled…a lot.”

The subject died rather quickly when Ned moved towards the tree even closer, touching a few of the bobbles. Peter observed silently, waiting for him to say more but nothing was produced. Just silence. Peter shuffled on his feet and looked over at Ned before glancing down the hallway. His mind was bored, desperately, and he feared the coming night. He wasn’t tired enough, and if he wasn’t tired enough he would dream and he dreaded dreaming so, so much.

“Want to play something?” Peter questioned, hopeful.

Ned nodded, “Alright, what?”

“Um…” Peter looked around. He really wasn’t so sure. Peter chewed his nails, and finally his mind clicked to being back home in the palace – before everything – before being locked away when the children of the servants would come and join him for the day. Peter exclaimed, “Hide-and-seek!”

Before Ned could say anything, Peter erupted, running down the hall and up the staircase, “Not it!”

“That isn’t fair!”

Peter let out a cackle, rushing down the upstairs hall, nearly knocking down one of the maids and calling an apology over his shoulder. Peter ran, taking the next staircase up to the third floor, towards the east end of the home. Further and further, past rooms he knew to be empty of anyone. The uninhabited area that he often avoided because it was so quiet and dark on that end of the house, he didn’t particularly enjoy going that way. But he knew it would take Ned longer to reach the upper portions because he would most likely start combing further down. Peter slid to a stop, the rug below his feet skirting. He grabbed the corner of the wall to stop and peered upward, bending around the wall.

It almost looked like a thin pantry door. Peter reached for it, expecting a broom closet, but instead when he opened it, there were no brooms, coats, cleaning supplies…Nothing…not besides what appeared to be a small staircase, tinier than most Peter had seen in his life. Like an attic entrance. Peter blinked, tilting his head before he glanced down the hall once more to see if he had been followed. He then squeezed inside and shut the door behind himself.

It smelled of moth balls. Peppermints. Something strong and Peter looked up, light pouring in from the top of the staircase. Peter began to climb slowly, the wood creaking under his shoes as he took the skinny stairs up and up. He felt almost squeezed within the walls before he emerged at the top, finding the light was coming from a window upon the ceiling. Peter looked around the room, taking in a small attic like space.

There were boxes. What looked to be at least fifty, lining the walls. A small rocking chairs and several other pieces of furniture covered with white sheets. Peter moved forward, tilting his head as he kneeled down in front of one of the boxes, sliding his hand over the top and dust pooling into the air. It was cold, colder than the rest of the house where he was. He supposed the fireplaces couldn’t reach such depths in the house. Or heights. Peter opened the box slowly, looking inside and finding several papers and pictures.

One was a black and white photo, of a man, woman, and a small child. Peter stared a long moment, the boy in the photo appearing familiar but before his mind could connect who it was the sound of creaking caused him to nearly jump out of his skin. Peter flinched, looking upward towards the other side of the room. The wooden boards in the wall were missing in a few spaces and Peter swallowed thickly, reminded vaguely of the story his auntie once told him of the girl who lived in the walls of the palace. All make believe, but it was something he had held onto for his entire life. His uncle had been upset she had told him that story, despite it being unreal.

Just to scare children.

Peter stood, shivering either from the cold or from anxiety, he was unsure. He walked forward, step by step. As he got closer, he swore he saw movement behind the planks and he tilted his head, reaching out for the wood. His hand slid over it, and into it and with one tug the nails gave way and it opened. There was a crash – a whoosh and out came a swarm of dark beasts, monsters, swirling and screeching.

He let out a startled shout, falling back into the rocking chair. There was a crack from his skull making contact with the banister when it flipped and Peter felt the world dim numbly.

…

…

…

_ December 15th, 1918 _

They hid the gifts in his shop.

Tony squeezed through the front door, pulling the gloves off, and shedding his coat as well just as Pepper followed him inside. He rubbed his hands together, slipping the scarf and hat next, hanging them on the hooks close by to be moved to the closet later. Pepper did the same and Tony blew hot air from his mouth into his fingers, trying to get some feeling back after working to unload the carriage. His eyes studied the foyer, pursing his lips at the oddity of not having Jarvis come to greet them upon their arrival home. Tony walked in further, glancing around the corner into the lounge and still seeing no one.

“Quiet, isn’t it?” Tony questioned towards Pepper. She paused in what she was doing, humming in agreement. Usually they could hear bustling from the help, or even Peter doing things throughout the home, but there was hardly any movement. Until Tony finally heard a bit of footsteps that rounded quickly into the foyer, as if in a rush.

Jarvis was there, and standing beside him was Ned Leeds, the boy from down the way. Tony’s brows furrowed in confusion as he took in the child’s wide, worried eyes and Jarvis’ ever stoic expression. Jarvis approached, wide strides, telling Tony whatever was happening and whatever had brought the silence, it was anything to be stoic about. Tony swallowed a bit thickly, hoping to see Peter, but when the child didn’t appear something dreadful took his stomach.

“Sir,” Jarvis stated, “We can’t find the boy.”

That was how it started. The full sweep of the house, starting from the bottom. The Leeds Boy explained that they had been playing hide-and-seek and after not being able to locate Peter, he had told Jarvis he was worried something was wrong. Then after shouting and shouting and shouting, and Peter still not showing himself…Well, things just went from there. They checked cabinets, the dumbwaiter, everything they could think would possibly be small enough for Peter to get stuck or harmed within. Tony had about decided halfway through the search he would never even let anyone mention the game of hide-and-seek again with him around because he had never realized what a danger it could be.

Peter could turn anything dangerous, he decided.

There was one point where he just couldn’t understand. His mind couldn’t process what Peter had done to disappear or where he had gone. The manor was large, but not large enough to lose a twelve-year-old in…Maybe a toddler. Tony took the stairs all the way up to the third floor, as he heard Ned downstairs, still apologizing profusely as if he had been the one to misplace Tony’s surrogate child. Somehow it would all be entertaining if Tony wasn’t so anxious.

Tony glanced down the halls, back and forth, moving to the silent east end. He nearly turned and went the opposite direction as he couldn’t hear anything, but when he glanced at the floor, he noticed the rug was bunched up near the corner. He moved towards it, peering around the edge, seeing the old door to the attic and Tony inhaled deeply, muttering, “Of course…”

He grabbed the handle and pulled the closet open before stepping inside. Several hours had ticked by in their search, he could hardly see from the skylight above head. Tony couldn’t think of the last time he had gone to the attic, purely because he found the room to be incredibly unnerving and discomforting. All of his father’s old belonging had been shoved up there and unfortunately he preferred to pretend the man never existed at all. The stairs groaned under his weight and Tony called, “Peter?”

No one answered and continued to climb, finally emerging at the top. Tony looked over, seeing one of the boxes opened, but then when his head turned to the right, just beside the stairs and over the banister, Tony found a form lying on the ground, a piece of wood missing from the wall and dust stirred in tiny piles, the rocking chair toppled over nearby. Tony moved around quickly, and Peter’s body was lying still, the boy’s eyes closed and head turned to the side.

“Oh God,” Tony whispered, dropping down beside him. He placed a hand on Peter’s chest, feeling it rise and fall. It was freezing in the room, and Tony ran his hand over the back of Peter’s head, feeling warmth from his scalp. When he pulled his hand away, it came back crimson and Tony felt his stomach churn with a bit of nausea. He slid his hands under Peter’s back and lifted, muttering, “Alright, I’ve got you.”

Peter’s head rested limply against him as he took the stairs backdown.

“I’ve got you.”

…

…

…

_ December 15th, 1918 _

_“Come here, my love.”_

_Peter looked over, his auntie there. The fireplace glowed her face, shining, and she looked like she had been crying but she was smiling at him softly. The palace was oddly quiet, and she rarely sat so close to the warmth from the giant hearth. She wore her night clothes, out in the open where even the servants could see and Peter approached, a blanket draped over his shoulders. Russia was so cold in the winter. February had brought ice, more so than January if such a thing was possible._

_Her hands caressed his face when he was in reach._

_“Auntie…” Peter murmured weakly, “Uncle has been very…”_

_“Shhh, and listen,” She interrupted, sounding pained, as she moved her hands to his wrists and pulled him down to sit on the edge of the hearth. “Listen closely…Tomorrow, in the early hours…Men are going to come here…And they’re going to take us away.”_

_“Us?” Peter murmured, eyes going large._

_“All of us…And some of the servants,” She replied, “They’ll take us somewhere, and we’ll be…we will essentially be prisoners. But I need you not to be afraid, alright? We have so many allies who love us, and they will come for us. So you needn’t be frightened. Be calm.”_

_Her lips found his brow._

_“Be brave, my love. It’s alright.”_

“It’s alright.”

Peter’s eyes opened, not sharply or with force, but slowly and delicately. He felt hands on him, one cradling the back of his neck and his chin was buried into someone’s shoulder. He felt a cry on his lips, though he wasn’t aware of any pain coursing through his body. It all felt rather feather light to the touch and he wondered where it was blooming from because he struggled to make sense of the situation he was currently experiencing. Like a slow horse accident. Like watching a body flip over the head and slam into the ground. He was looking at what appeared to be a window, snow fluttering down outside. His mind clammed up, then opened again and Peter squirmed, burying his face deeper into the shoulder. The hand on the back of his neck, holding it in place tightened, and an entire arm was wrapped around his back, holding him to someone else’s body.

There was something stinging on the back of his head, under his hair and he cringed heavily.

“I’m done…I believe that’s as clean as I’ll get it with all the hair.”

The voice was familiar. A man, the doctor, the one who lived close by. Doctor Banner. The shoulder his face was buried in smelled of gin and peppermints, not unlike the stairwell he had used to climb to the attic. Peter tried to gain control of his limbs, but he could barely move and he supposed they didn’t realize he was lucid enough to understand their speaking, because he heard the source of the smell, The Lord, questioned, “He’s fine?”

“I believe so,” Doctor Banner answered, and Peter hated not being able to look at anyone. He felt like an infant with his back turned to the conversation, “Just a bump on the head. Knocked him out cold, hit him just right. You said they found bats?”

“Yes…we think he got startled.”

“Well, you should contact an exterminator. Those things carry diseases.”

There was a sigh, and Peter was lifted, but not for long before he was slowly placed to lay down on his back. It was his bed, he could tell, in the past few months he had come to know it as if by name. His fingers released the shirt they were wrapped in and he could hardly hold his eyes open, but when The Lord stood back to full height and removed his hand from where he was supporting Peter’s neck, it seemed that was the first time he noticed Peter was truly awake. He paused, looking down and tilting his head to the side as if curious and there was a slight hint of amusement, but also irritation as he mused.

“Well…Speak of the Devil.”

“He’s hardly that.”

Doctor Banner’s voice was annoyed, more so than The Lord’s and The Lord rolled his eyes, “Alright, Little Devil. Small and baby-faced Devil. But a Devil nonetheless, a professional at giving me near death experiences.”

Peter said nothing as a thick quilt was brought over his body and The Lord loomed over, questioning slowly, as if he thought Peter couldn’t understand, and maybe he couldn’t. Maybe his brain was just struggling to catch up with what was happening around him. The Lord asked, “Feeling alright? Quite a nasty blow you took, must have been something pretty vicious up there in the attic that…might I add…I don’t know if asked to go in.”

The boy blinked, and answered, throat hoarse.

“No one said I couldn’t.”

His accent was too thick. The Lord glanced back at Banner, and then an index finger tapped his mouth and an eyebrow raised in a silent order. Peter swallowed, tried to put his articulators where they should be and he went on, “There were bats…in the wall. I thought it was devushka v stene.”

“Alright,” As soon as the Russian left his tongue Peter cringed and The Lord clapped his hands together, turning to Doctor Banner. “Doctor Banner, I think we’re fine for the remainder of the day, thank you.”

Peter couldn’t see Doctor Banner. He could hardly lift his head because he still felt terribly dizzy. His mind whirled wildly, brief and Peter felt the bed dip just as the sound of the door closing filled his ears. Peter looked up again, from the window where the snow was falling and the curtains were open too wide, and then to the fireplace, back to The Lord who had sat close. His voice sounded upset, but Peter was too out of it to hear much…

“That was Russian, if you didn’t know.”

“I knew.”

“And yet you said it anyway.”

“Why mustn’t I?” Peter always asked, and he always received similar answers, but he felt particularly petulant that night for some reason. The Lord looked at him, eyes daring, like Peter knew, and Peter did know. But the anger was bubbling in a prayer so violent Peter could hardly contain it, and it was just lucky he was too dizzy to move, “I quit. I quit. I don’t want to not speak my language anymore. Ned…today he said I sounded off anyway, so what’s the point? He doesn’t suspect –“

“Because he is a twelve-year-old boy who probably barely knows the rulers outside of his own country,” The Lord interrupted sharply, “Others will not be so easy to fool. I saw the newspapers just last week talking about possible ‘sightings’ people already claiming to be the missing prince with hopes of receiving money. And you know what? If any of them were true they would be dead. Because your country will not stop until you are either physically dead or your identity is. And I would prefer to keep you alive.”

“Why?” Peter croaked, gripping the sheets as his eyes burned. He did not like how The Lord loomed over him, it wasn’t fair. One day he would out grow him, he would make it his mission to do so, “Why? Why? If all I do is give you near death experiences, then why not just let them drag me back to Russia?!”

His voice raised suddenly, and The Lord looked startled as words poured out…

“Eto tyurma, ya moya sem'ya mertva! YA ne ponimayu, pochemu vse khotyat spasti moyu zhizn', da ya tol'ko bremya! YA khochyu domoy!”

A hand clamped over his mouth and The Lord glanced anxiously towards the door. Peter squirmed, pushing at the wrist a moment as The Lord breathed heavily, eyes wide with what looked to be a borderline terror. Peter dug his nails in, and squirmed harder when the hand did not remove itself, and The Lord leaned downward and whispered, his voice much calmer than his facial expression, but underlying desperation seethed out, “Shhhh, shhh Peter listen to me. There are always ears. I do not even know who to trust, so please…Please…stop.”

The hand remained clamped over his mouth, but the other hand slid a thumb over his cheekbone messily. Not like his auntie’s comforting touches that were knowledgeable in their comfort, but rather panicked comfort that came from somewhere that no one knew existed and it had to stay that way for some reason.

When the hand finally did remove itself, the shouting had ceased and Peter pouted. He glared upward at his surrogate father, before rolling over onto his side to face the window. A sigh escaped the man, and there was shifting before The Lord spoke, “Peter…I’m sorry.”

The Lord paused, then, “I want to keep you alive.”

Peter didn’t respond. He was afraid it would sound too much like home.

…

…

…

_ December 16th, 1918 _

Peter didn’t scream that night.

It was crying, in the nightmare, and the sound of snow slamming against the window. Tony had fallen asleep in a chair in the corner of the room just to keep an eye on him, because he had once heard of people with head wounds not waking up and he was trying to avoid such things. Tony flew from the chair, Peter was curled in on himself, fat tears staining his cheeks and the boy was muttering something weakly and Tony barely heard it.

“It hurts, it hurts, it hurts…”

Tony whispered urgently, “It’s just a dream.”

Even though he knew it wasn’t.

He knew it was the feeling of bullets slamming into jewels that would not allow death to take him.

…

…

…

_ December 24th, 1918 _

Peter avoided The Lord after that.

Days and days and days drifted by with very little contact, except if in the night he screamed. Mostly because Peter couldn’t help but slide over his insolence, but also the insolence of The Lord and he didn’t know who was in the wrong. He knew they were trying to protect him, but he just felt so angry it was almost as if he couldn’t burrow it down deep enough. Like his body couldn’t contain all of it. It was screaming on the boarder between life and death and Peter wanted to escape so badly he was almost willing to accept the danger that exposure would cause.

Instead, he went sledding with his friends every day.

Every day.

He knew The Lord didn’t like him being out in the cold that long, but when he would hear Jarvis calling his name at the request of The Lord, he would take longer and longer to come inside. That Christmas Eve, when he and his friends had climbed back to the top of the hill, Peter heard Jarvis’ voice call from the house. It called and called and called and Peter simply ignored it, despite Ned trying to tell him he was going to be taken out to the shed for not listening to his ‘father’ and the butler. Peter still made no attempt though to find what he was meant to be doing.

Eventually, the calling for his name changed. Instead it was Miss Potts, and Peter knew better than to keep her waiting. So he grabbed his sled, and ran back to the house, dragging it behind him through the snow and going as fast as his feet would carry him. Miss Potts, sure enough, was standing out front of the door, arms crossed over her chest and a disapproving stare on her face.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear.”

“Hmmm,” She hummed as she let him inside and she questioned, “Then how did you know we called multiple times? Enough to warrant an apology?”

Peter bit the inside of his mouth and the door shut. She plucked his hat from his head and Peter pulled off his gloves and coat, as one of the maids came forward to take them and put them away to dry. Miss Potts was quick to grab his hand and Peter looked at her confused, before he questioned, sounding almost alarmed, “What’s happening?”

“We’re going to wash you up,” Miss Potts replied, “The nurse is waiting upstairs, we’re having a Christmas meal tonight, so you need to be bathed and dressed.”

Peter frowned, and pouted, “Bathed?”

“Yes bathed, dear, would you like to walk around covered in the day’s sweat?”

Peter would not care much. But he was brought to the en suite bathroom and sure enough, the nurse was there with a warm bath prepared for him. He climbed in it, was basically scrubbed from head to toe and behind his ears. His head was dunked several times and his numb limbs soon found feeling again in the hot water. By the time he got out, he was actually too hot, and the nurse dressed him in a red sweater and some trousers, with shiny shoes. It felt like the Christmas dinners at home, almost. Just almost.

Peter questioned the nurse, “Who would be coming? I thought The Lord didn’t have family.”

“He has friends,” She replied, “And so does Miss Potts. She invited a few people of her own to join us, from what I understand. Though don’t tell The Lord that, I believe he prefers when her friends don’t come. Especially that doctor.”

“Banner?” Peter questioned.

“Oh no, the other one,” She shrugged, “The one that went to war…oh what’s his name…Wyrd?”

Peter blinked. He didn’t know and it made him feel a bit nervous at the prospect of people coming to visit. It scared him, especially after what happened with Banner in the house, even if it had resulted in nothing but a bruised ego. Peter watched her stand to full height before combing his hair down a bit and soon enough he was dressed and ready to go. By the time he was set free to go downstairs, he could already hear voices coming from the kitchen. Peter walked towards the staircase, peering down, and movement in the foyer caught his attention. It was both Miss Potts and The Lord, whispering quietly, maybe angrily, to one another.

Peter’s brows furrowed as he heard The Lord ask, “You invited him? And her?”

“I invited him because he has helped us on many occasions,” She breathed, “And her…she invited herself. Though I have a feeling Fury sent her to check in on things. I don’t have the slightest clue.”

Him. Her.

Peter blinked.

Slowly, he made his way down and both adults looked up upon hearing one of the stairs creak loudly. Miss Potts smiled at him and The Lord looked away, seemingly still distressed by the conversation. Miss Potts came to wait for him on the bottom step and she said, “I love that sweater, don’t you?”

She looked at The Lord, and he nodded his head, finally making eye contact with Peter. Peter must have looked concerned, because The Lord’s face softened and he moved forward as well, commenting, “Yes, it’s wonderful…Peter, I need to speak to you for a moment.”

“Oh don’t make it more than it needs to be,” Miss Potts argued just as The Lord took his wrist. She looked like she was pleading, “It can be a perfectly wonderful dinner if you’d let it. You’ll only frighten him by talking about her…Peter –“

She turned to him, then, “Listen…Do you remember Natasha Romanoff?”

“Pepper,” He warned.

Peter blinked a few times, eyes moving back and forth between the adults. It felt like when his auntie and uncle would bicker and he would be standing there watching. His eyes went wide at the name, he recalled it very clearly in the back of his mind. Peter just nodded mutely, and Pepper went on, ignoring The Lord’s voice, “She’s…she’s here, and I believe it to be because Nicholas Fury sent her to do some kind of…check in. Now…I don’t think there is any reason to be alarmed. We just behave as we usually do and everything will be fine, alright?”

Miss Potts then looked at The Lord, “Right?”

The hand on his wrist tightened a bit. But The Lord nodded his head mutely and Peter did as well in agreement. Peter finished his way down the stairs and the three of them moved towards the dining room down the hallway, turning into the opened double doors. Inside were four people: Doctor Banner, Colonel Rhodes, Natasha Romanoff, and a fourth Peter did not know, but he supposed it was the Doctor…Doctor Wyrd the nurse was talking about.

They were all holding champagne glasses, smiling at each other. Even Natasha Romanoff, who Peter remembered being very serious, but Peter supposed only Colonel Rhodes knew who she truly was. The Lord’s hand slid over the top of his head, smoothing the combed hair a bit as they entered and a lie of a face graced him. He was smiling and Peter wondered how The Lord could change so dramatically, so quickly.

“I see you’ve all introduced yourselves to each other,” The Lord commented as they came closer. Peter swallowed thickly, as The Lord began, “Let me introduce you all to my son, though I know Banner and Rhodes, you’re already familiar. Peter, this is Natasha Romanoff, an associate who works for friends back in America. And this man is Doctor Strange – a friend of Miss Potts’…”

“Only Miss Potts?” The Doctor, that instead was named Doctor Strange, not Wyrd, stated as he raised an eyebrow, “Come, after all the broken bones I’ve mended in place of Banner?”

Doctor Banner pursed his lips in a knowing glance. The Lord nearly rolled his eyes, but Peter watched him drown the urge as he picked up an offered champagne glass from one of the servants. He downed it rather quickly, and Natasha Romanoff stepped forward, offering a hand to Peter. Peter took it, hesitating, as he still remembered her harshness, the hardness behind her eyes and her hands and he gulped past the lump in his throat at the memory.

Doctor Strange then took his hand as well. Strange commented, “How is it we have never met him before, Stark?”

“Relations…” The Lord paused, looking like he was unsure of his next word, “Relations with his mother were not the best. But, bless her soul, she passed. He is now under my care.”

Strange made a face that was unreadable to Peter as he commented, “God help him.”

There were laughs, but Peter looked at The Lord with a wary glance as a smile was forced sideways. Another champagne glass, downed, Peter shifted uncomfortably as if he knew where this conversation was going. The Lord moved to sit at the head of the table and he questioned, “And you Strange, what are you doing now? Last I heard you were on the battle grounds, must be quiet with the war over in all of these celebratory weeks.”

Strange looked at him knowingly and Peter wondered what he was missing. But he sat down next to Miss Potts who sat next to The Lord’s head of the table. Beside him was Banner, in front of him was Natasha Romanoff, and in front of Miss Potts was Doctor Strange, leaving Colonel Rhodes to take the other head of the table. Banner looked the most awkward of them all, but Peter knew he felt it potently. The servants began to bring the food out and Doctor Strange said, “It has been very quiet.”

“So you were on the front line?”

“I never know.”

The Lord’s eyes narrowed, and Peter felt curious. He piped up, without really thinking, “You never know?”

His tongue felt wrong in that English accent, and Romanoff looked at him weird, but it was almost a satisfied look. Peter swallowed down the urge to tell her how awful it made him feel to speak that way, that she should not look satisfied by it. Instead though, he held his fork between his fingers and waited patiently for Doctor Strange to respond. He looked at Peter, and his knowing stare softened and he answered, “I’m assigned to my jobs. Healing is a universal need. I never know where I’ll be.”

“But…” Peter started, not looking at Miss Potts or The Lord, “You make it sound like such a secret. It’s an honor to fight for your country, isn’t it? Or to heal those fighting? My country’s war was –“

Peter cut himself off, biting down hard on his tongue when he looked at Romanoff and that approval mixed into narrowed eyes. Peter blinked rapidly, before he cleared his throat, and when on, “ _Our_ country’s war…our presence has been…taking a toll of course and it’s over now. So it was an honor to be a part of stopping evil.”

The Lord looked wary. Peter felt heavy and embarrassed at his mess-up. It was like speaking Russian the other night. He poked his fork with several vegetables, and shoved them in his mouth to drown out the screaming in the back of his skull. Doctor Strange shrugged, and didn’t seem to notice what he had said earlier. Instead he hesitated and explained, “Yes, I suppose it is an honor. But my practices aren’t always viewed in the best of light.”

“Oh come, Strange,” The Lord shifted into amusement, “Don’t tell me all those stories of you being a witch-doctor are true. They’re fairy tales, no need to seem so hurt. We’re all educated, smart enough not to believe such things.”

Strange smiled, but it looked painful as he took a sip of his drink and swallowed. He then breathed, “Yes. Of course.”

The conversation shifted, and Strange turned to Peter once more, “Are you going to be attending any of the preparatory schools?”

Peter blinked in surprise at the question. He hadn’t given it much thought. The heir to the throne of course was only taught from home at the hands of tutors, nothing else. Peter swallowed, and looked over at The Lord with a questioning face. There was something appetizing about escaping to a school somewhere, finding other children, but he had come to love his friends, particularly Ned Leeds. He would most certainly have to go where Ned went. But The Lord shook his head, crushing those desires for socialization like ashes.

“No, he’ll be taught here as soon as I can find a suitable instructor.”

“He has been here since July though, hasn’t he…?” Banner questioned curiously, looking genuinely concerned, “You still haven’t found anyone suitable?”

“Not yet,” The Lord sighed, “I’ve been teaching him. We’re just having a bit of a break because of the holiday season.”

Truthfully their break had come because The Lord’s teaching had melded more into the mechanics of his work shop and that had become rather dangerous very quickly. Miss Potts spent a lot of time upset every time Peter received a cut or a bruise or a burn and soon enough Peter was no longer allowed to learn the machinery. Maybe he would have to beg, he didn’t know, but his pride stopped him from taking it so far as to do such a thing. He pushed more vegetables into his mouth, nearly gagging on how much it was.

Strange said, “Well, he’ll need to learn more. I mean, look at history. Children just don’t care anymore, and if we don’t learn our history we don’t learn from our mistakes. Take the French Revolution for example. Marie Antoinette and her husband. The Russian Royals let nearly the exact same thing happen to them. Because no one learns anymore.”

Peter nearly choked.

His face looked hurt as Strange continued, “It was barbaric. A tragedy, what they did to that family. In a basement! Slaughtered them, just…bang, bang, bang –“

Peter pulled his hand back. The glass next to it toppled over and spilled red wine that had been poured for Miss Potts. Peter’s eyes went wide as it strewn across the white table top, like blood pooling around his auntie’s head and his uncle’s body and he inhaled deeply, taking in a breath. Peter felt it coming and he shoved his chair back from the table before he doubled over.

Vomit spilled beneath on the very expensive rug.

…

…

…

_ December 24th, 1918 _

Not the ideal Christmas Eve, Tony had to admit.

The servants probably hadn’t wanted to scrub vomit off the floor and Tony hadn’t wanted to socialize so much, and he was sure the boy probably didn’t want to vomit his dinner up under the table. Tony sat silently in his office, beside the fireplace with a book in his lap. _The Secret Garden_. More of a younger book, but he wanted something simplistic for the moment as he watched Peter in the corner of the room. This was the only time they had been alone since the angry spiel so many days ago.

The boy was lying on the sofa, face frowning. Tony slid his hand up the book and he spoke into what felt like a lonely void, “What is in your mind?”

“In my mind?” Peter asked, looking confused.

“Yes, in it,” Tony stated, “I always found ‘on’ one’s mind to be a strange wording. Things don’t just sit on a person’s skull for all to see. No, those little bits are way down deep and are hard to get out. So, as I said, what is in your mind?”

Peter hesitated. It looked like he was haunted. His eyes kept looking away, up and down and then all around and Tony wasn’t sure how to push the question further. He tilted his head a bit to the side, bit his lip. Looked worried and sad all at the same time. Peter then inhaled, and opened, for the first time since their row.

“Sometimes, here I want to be happy. With my friends. With the help. With…with you…and Miss Potts. But other times I feel so heavy I could sink in that creek. Under the ice. The thing that frightens me is how that is so appealing. I want to be happy, but it’s like I cannot.”

Tony was silent and Peter continued.

“I miss them like I’ve never missed anyone. I miss home like I’ve never missed any place. I miss my language, the food, the people. Even the features in people’s faces seem different. Christmas feels different. I want to be happy, but I don’t know how to be.”

They were weighted words to come from a twelve-year-old. Tony felt his heart clench a bit and he swallowed, sitting up straight. He held up the book and he asked, “Have you ever read _The Secret Garden_?”

Peter’s head shook. Tony inhaled and explained, “There’s this one part…A part that says ‘where you tend a rose, my lad, a thistle cannot grow’.”

“What does that mean?” Peter asked, pushing himself to his elbows.

Tony sighed.

“It means, Peter…Tending good thoughts, grows roses. Which is not simple. No one is perfect at it. It’s all a part of actively moving to it.”

The advice left fluidly, and Tony wished he could actually carry it out himself. But the boy was better…the boy had to be better.

…

…

…

_ December 25th, 1918 _

Christmas morning, Peter wanted to tend good thoughts.

Sadness, grief, it crept in. Memories of past Christmases in the palace, running down grand staircases to the tree, his auntie helping him to tear the gifts. It was all in the back of his mind. But as he came down the stairs and entered the lounge to see all the gifts, for a moment a childish glee arrived. Because it was like home, and he was still a boy, still a child that could feel happy about the prospect of gifts under a Christmas tree because magic worked in such a way.

He tore them open, while The Lord and Miss Potts watched. While even some of servants peeked in to see. Toys, more and more, and Peter forgot where he was, if only for a moment as he found the final gift. Silver wrapping, tearing, and birthing a brown bear. Peter ran his thumb over its face, his heart swelled with great joy and The Lord approached, kneeling down beside him. Peter looked up, eyes round and The Lord took his head and whispered in his ear…

“Your home…The bear is national, yes?”

Peter’s hand squeezed it. His lower lip trembled.

He nodded.

“Yes…and it’s a rose…isn’t it?”

For a moment, The Lord seemed confused, then realization. The Lord breathed, “If you want it to be.”

Peter quickly tied happiness to that moment. To that memory.

And anchored it.


End file.
